Hamilton E. Salsich II
UNHURRIED
Each
summer as I look forward to a new school year, the word “unhurried” almost
always comes to mind as a description of the kind of teaching I hope to do. I never
want to rush through a lesson, run through a review, sprint through a ‘to do’
list, or charge ahead with impulsive words and actions. I want to do everything
the way the sun rises -- with an easy kind of poise. There’s never any need for
urgency in teaching English to teenagers. The planet will continue turning
whether I cover three or six or zero comma rules in a class period. Our hearts
will continue beating and our trillion cells will keep being reborn no matter
what happens (or doesn’t happen) in 8th grade English class on
Barnes Road. Nothing need be done except with attentiveness and consideration.
Flowers can’t be hastened into blooming before their proper time, nor can good
teaching be rushed. I must allow each 60 seconds in class to be utterly thorough
and satisfying. All the moments in the universe are precious ones, so I may as
well slow down and appreciate each one as it effortlessly displays itself in
Room 2.
* * * * *
ALERT AND RELAXED
Like
a good driver, a good teacher stays both alert and relaxed. When driving on an
icy road, I have to be watchful for especially slippery sections of the road,
but I also have to remain relaxed enough at the wheel to maneuver the car with
deftness and flexibility. I have to stay both tense and comfortable. I must be
determined, in the sense of being committed to watching every inch of the way
ahead, but I must also be open, flexible, and accommodating to whatever the
circumstances might provide. I sometimes picture a good driver on a bad road as
having furrowed brows (the alertness) but a slight and honest smile (the
relaxation). He’s working hard but still somehow taking pleasure in the
situation. I picture a teacher in a similar way. Certainly I have to be totally
alert to every shade and tone during class. I need to have fifty eyes instead
of just two, and a few dozen ears wouldn’t hurt. Thousands of mental and verbal
events happen in each class, and I need to be aware of all of them. However, I
must always balance my watchfulness with an equal amount of lightness and
easing up. Teaching teenagers the rudiments of fine writing and serious
literature often resembles navigating a frozen mountain road, and while I’m
ever on the alert I also need to be relaxed enough to move the class through
the labyrinth that’s always created when free-thinking, restive adolescents
come together to discuss the art of speaking from the heart in written words. I
need to ‘drive’ the class with the coolest kind of awareness, with an
attentiveness that feels like dancing.
* * * * *
CLASSROOM STYLE
I
hope my classroom – and my teaching – has something special, something
distinctive for the students. When the students enter my room, I’d like them to
think, “Wow, this place has some style!” We often think of classrooms as drab
and dreary places, but does it have to be that way? Why can’t a classroom for
teenage English scholars have some panache, some feeling of youthful and
street-smart chic? And why can’t a teacher, even an old and wrinkly one, have a
little style in his bearing and behavior? Why can’t he wear spry bow ties and
impeccably pressed shirts, as much as to say, “Boys and girls, this teacher has
some technique”? Why can’t I show a
sort of flamboyant confidence and manner, as if to say to the scholars, “This
is the way I live, and it’s the way I read and write, too – with style”?
* * * * *
IT’S VERBS, NOT NOUNS
This
may sound strange, but in my classroom I try be more like a verb than a noun. I
try to think of myself more as “events” that are constantly unfolding than as a
solid, unchanging person who is supposedly responsible for the teaching and
learning in the room. After all, nothing in this life is actually stationary or
fixed, including me. My cells are continually dying and being reborn, second by
second, and so is everything around me in the classroom. The atoms in the air
come to my students and me from vast distances, and they’re gone before the
class is over. Process is everywhere and stasis is nowhere. In my classroom, I
am a new idea every moment, and then a new action, and then another new idea.
It happens endlessly, with no pause. It’s verbs, not nouns. Who am I? I am
“Laughing” or “Pointing” or “Speaking” or “Smiling”, not a lackluster,
cast-iron person called “Mr. Salsich”.
* * * * *
KICKS AND CHEERFULNESS
In
George Eliot’s Adam Bede, the author says that, for some people, life is
not a task but a sinecure, which is exactly how I feel about teaching. I feel
incredibly lucky that, all those decades ago, I was accepted into this
profession that seems, at least at this stage of my career, to be more like
soothing entertainment than strenuous labor. I love what I’m doing – totally
and from start to finish. Even to think about my classes is to get a rush of
eagerness and exhilaration. Of course, I do work hard at my lesson plans and
paper grading, but it’s the kind of hard work a mountaineer does as he climbs
the impressive trails. It’s work, yes, but it’s also gladness and satisfaction.
I almost feel ashamed to get a paycheck every two weeks, considering my classes
are filled with kicks and cheerfulness of the best kind for a weathered and
well-lined English teacher.
* * * * *
COMING TOGETHER
Perhaps
I should think of myself as a “convenience” for my students, something that
assists them in building a relatively competent and satisfying academic life
for themselves. Just as a laptop computer is seen as a convenience for the
traveling executive, making her or him a more efficient manager of the
company’s affairs, I might consider myself an aid or a tool for my students to
utilize as they pursue their studies.
Don’t we surround ourselves with conveniences, and aren’t some of these
conveniences exceedingly important to us? If I want to read at night, I have
lamps conveniently ready to glow and give good light for my eyes. If I want a
drink of water, I have the convenience of the faucet and its faithful flow of
water. Conveniences make it easier for us to do essential tasks, and isn’t that
what a teacher does? The students want to learn – need to learn—and Mr. Salsich is there to make the task more
convenient for them. Similar to a
walking stick and sturdy boots, I’m ready to assist the kids as they climb the
trails of literary skills and appreciation. Interestingly, the word
“convenience” derives from the Latin word meaning “come together”, and thus perhaps
what I’m doing as an English teacher is simply helping my students get themselves together, in order that
they might share, discuss, write truthfully, read wisely, smile with
satisfaction, and celebrate their fresh and scholarly lives.
* * * * *
COMFORTABLE TEACHING
AND LEARNING
Like
most of us, I have always enjoyed being comfortable, and, as a teacher of
teenagers, good comfort for one and all has been an enduring goal of mine. For
example, I like to think my classroom provides comfort in the form of physical
ease and relaxation for the students. Although the chairs are unremarkable and
the space is small and commonplace, a few cheerful lamps provide, I hope, a
sense of ease and wellbeing, and the recurrent smiles of the old teacher serve
to boost the students’ spirits now and again. I almost feel an atmosphere of
luxury and indulgence when I enter my classroom, and I hope the scholars can
also feel at least a touch of that. In addition, I hope my teaching itself is
comfortable, in the sense of being as “large” as is needed or wanted. We define a comfortable income as one
that is big enough to supply all our needs and wants, and I hope my students
can experience my teaching in that way, as instruction that makes available all
the tools and stimulation necessary for their continued growth as English
scholars. A third and elemental way in which I want to provide comfort in my
work as a teacher has to do with the etymology of the word. “Comfort”
originally referred to bringing strength to a situation (from the Latin
“fortis”, as in “fort” and “fortitude”), so when we are comfortable, it is
because we feel strong and surrounded by strength. We feel comforted because we
know that all is well, which is exactly how I want my students to feel.
Whatever happens in English class, whatever their successes or failures may be,
I want the students to know that all is well, that they are good and getting
better, and that all the strength they need is waiting securely and comfortably
inside them.
* * * * *
PROUD TO BE IGNORANT
Over
the course of four decades as a classroom teacher, I’ve slowly come to see that
ignorance is as necessary to academic success as good soil is to a garden.
Ignorance, you might say, is the fertile soil of first-rate education, for
without it no learning would take place. I can’t learn something unless I’m
first ignorant of it – unless there is first an empty space in my understanding
that is waiting to be filled by awareness and appreciation. It’s surprising to me that so many
people seem to want to conceal their ignorance – to pretend that it doesn’t
exist. That’s as foolish as hiding the soil of your flourishing flower garden
because you’re ashamed of it, or pretending the slimy mire of pond bottoms
isn’t actually the source of every handsome water lily blossom. Out of the
darkness of night comes the light of morning, and out of the perplexity of
ignorance comes the longed-for shimmer of insight. I’m proud to be, relatively
speaking, overwhelmingly ignorant, because it means I have a universe of
learning ahead of me.
* * * * *
DEVELOPING “GREEN”
WRITERS AND READERS
The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that
extravagance is a quality to be assiduously avoided by my students, and that
its opposite, which we might call prudence, is the virtue most needed in their
academic enterprises. Extravagance might be defined as just plain wastefulness
– the tendency to use resources in a spendthrift and unwise manner. When
students write or read, they call upon their resources – mainly thoughts and
words – and their duty is to use these resources in a judicious manner. Just as
they shouldn’t recklessly fling their money around, so they should avoid using
thoughts and words in a hasty and undisciplined way. Of course, it’s not
surprising that my students tend to be wasteful with their mental resources in
the classroom, when we remember that society as a whole is nothing if not
wasteful. A kind of riotous profligacy is a way of life these days, with
self-indulgence seeming to be a far more sought-after quality than self-discipline.
Growing up in a culture that throws out tons of refuse each day, it’s little
wonder that young students don’t mind wasting some disorderly thoughts on an
interpretation of a Dickens chapter, or handfuls of superfluous words on an
essay. The solution to this wastefulness, this unbridled extravagance, is an
uncomplicated but sadly out-of-date virtue called prudence, which one of my
dictionaries defines as “the wise use of resources”. It’s that simple, really.
My students have a finite number of thoughts and words, and they must employ
them in a calculated manner. As is true in the care of personal finances, they
will find that this kind of attention to the guardianship of their mental
resources will result in much higher profits in their English studies.
* * * * *
GETTING THERE
Every
morning I have to get to a certain place – my school – and I always take the
same route. Years ago I learned this route – learned that it’s the shortest
path between my house and school, and that it will reliably get me to work
reasonably quickly and safely. Now I drive the roads almost without thinking.
Because I have faith in the route, getting where I need to go has become an
easy and fairly speedy task. I often think of my students as I’m driving to
school, for they, too, have destinations they must reach in English class. Each
week they must arrive at an understanding of how to construct their next essay,
and must make their way, hopefully with grace and aplomb, to the final
sentence. Each week they must somehow journey to an understanding of new
concepts and skills, and must learn what routes to take through the bewildering
pages of poems, stories, and novels.
Week after week, I place a goal, a destination, in front of them, and it
is their job to get there – and that,
I’ve always believed, is where I come in. I guess what I enjoy most about
teaching is simply helping the students “get there”. Years ago someone told me what roads to take to get to
school as efficiently as possible, and, similarly, I try to lay out for my
students some reliable routes to success in English class. I don’t necessarily
want to make “getting there” easy for
the students, but I want to make it entirely possible. When I get in my car
each morning to drive to school, I know, without a doubt, that I will be
successful in getting there, and I want the students to have a similar
assurance when they set out to pick their way through a chapter or steer a
course through a complex writing assignment. I’d like them to be able to say,
“The goal of this assignment is far off in the distance, but I know exactly how
to get there.”
* * * * *
PARADISE REGAINED IN
ROOM 2
Sometimes,
in the morning before school, I read a few pages from Milton’s Paradise Lost,
and I find, oddly enough, that it helps me be a calmer and more undisturbed
teacher. I think it must be the music of Milton’s lines. As I read in the
morning, I feel almost like I’m listening to a Mozart symphony or some
easygoing chamber music, and the serenity of the music seems to reside with me throughout
the day. As I’m teaching a lesson, I wonder if lines like these occasionally
roll through the back of my mind:
“… over all the face of Earth
Main Ocean flow’d, not idle, but with
warme
Prolific humour soft’ning all her Globe,
Fermented the great Mother to conceave,
Satiate with genial moisture …”
In the
midst of my occasional feeling of indecisiveness and perplexity during class,
do those smooth ‘l’s, ‘m’s, ‘s’s, and ‘n’s of Milton’s make their melodies
somewhere inside me, enabling me to flow along more effortlessly with what is
happening in class? Do his laid-back rhythms cause my heart to keep a peaceable
cadence as I’m teaching? Does a line like “And sowd with Starrs
the Heav’n thick as a field”
help my thoughts drift along in leisure instead of dashing in a useless hubub?
* * * * *
BEING LOWLY WISE
“Be lowly
wise.”
--The
angel Raphael to Adam, in Paradise Lost
This
is prudent advice for a teacher of teenagers. Certainly I need to be a wise
teacher for my innocent and often bewildered students, but I need to always
remember how vast is the sea of ignorance inside me, from which small fish of
wisdom leap only occasionally, and always in a fleeting manner. Sure, I have
some knowledge to share, but I must keep in mind that what I don’t know would fill all the oceans of
the world. I am not getting any younger (68 and counting), but in terms of
insight and discernment I’m still a child, an infant in a very wide and weird
world. Perhaps Raphael is telling Adam to be wise in a modest way, to be
“smart”, yes, but to also be aware and accepting of his ignorance, because from
that “lowly” ignorance can spring, now and then, a spectacular flash of wisdom.
* * * * *
SOFT OPPRESSION
“There
gentle sleep
First
found me, and with soft oppression seised
My
droused sense…”
--Adam,
in Paradise Lost
When
I came across these lines one morning before school, I was immediately struck
by the odd combination of “soft” and “oppression”, and I began to wonder
whether it actually describes what I sometimes employ in my classroom. Of course, oppression is usually
thought of as being heavy-handed and antagonistic, even cruel, but if it’s soft – if it’s dispensed with kindness
and care – perhaps oppression can feel light and gracious. Perhaps a softly
oppressive atmosphere can actually be advantageous for my students. In Milton’s
poem, sleep, a peaceful and refreshing experience, is described as coming with
“oppression”, so maybe my many requirements and assignments – the academic
oppression I administer to my students – could be meted out with as gentle a
touch as sleep employs. I have to be the boss in my classroom, and that means
requiring the students to do taxing and sometimes downright oppressive tasks,
but if I present and manage the tasks in a benevolent manner, perhaps the
students can actually find in them some of the refreshment they find in a
night’s rest.
* * * * *
SOLACE IN ENGLISH
CLASS
“The only
alleviating circumstance in a tête-à-tête with uncle Pullet was that he kept a
variety of lozenges and peppermint-drops about his person, and when at a loss
for conversation, he filled up the void by proposing a mutual solace of this kind.”
-- George
Eliot, in The Mill on the Floss
This
quote refers to a teenage boy who is bored silly by a visit to his relatives,
and it reminded me, as I read it this afternoon, that my youthful, restive
students must often be afflicted with a similar sense of tedium in my classes.
In his audacious and adventurous stage of life, Tom Tulliver finds his uncle
ridiculously insignificant, and I’m sure my students sometimes wonder what in
the world a dawdling grandfather like me can offer them in the way of stimulating
experiences. Tom can’t wait to escape from his uncle’s dreary company to get on
with the natural pleasures of boyhood, and I’ll wager that the kids in my class
would gladly trade a discussion about a short story by Fitzgerald for some
rousing banter on a zillion topics with friends. However, Uncle Pullet does
offer something to soothe Tom’s ennui (peppermint drops and lozenges), and
perhaps I also, without realizing it, supply some occasional solace during a
tiresome class. After all, I do smile a lot when I’m teaching, and now and then
I pull an unlikely joke out of my mental bag. I also laugh, on impulse,
probably 20 times in a 48 minute class – wholehearted, honest laughter that
possibly makes the mood less burdensome and offers some relief to the students
(and me) in the midst of a wearisome lesson. In addition, I have an ample
supply of sincere compliments ready to bestow on this or that student, or on
all of us as a hard-working group of learners, and honest praise is probably at
least as heartening as peppermint drops.
* * * * *
WRITING BY WRINGING
One
morning, thinking of my students’ struggles with their current essay
assignment, I took my copy of Keats from the shelf and went back to this phrase
from “Ode to Psyche”: “… wrung /
By sweet enforcement”. I guess I was led to those words because it does seem
like my often convoluted and scholarly assignments often require words to be
“wrung” from the students, somewhat like my grandmother used to wring the
moisture out of freshly washed clothes before hanging them to dry. I recall
watching her send the wet clothes through the “wringer” to press the water out,
and as I thought about my anxious students toiling over their sentences, I
pictured them sending their ideas through mental wringers in order to twist out
a few good words. It’s true that there has to be a bit of squashing, smashing,
pushing, compressing, and crushing when young writers (or any writers) attempt
to force their unfettered and undisciplined thoughts into comprehensible
paragraphs. It’s not easy to wring out a presentable essay. It requires some
sturdy “enforcement” by my students, but the good news is that the enforcement
can be “sweet” – can be as easy on the students as the old-fashioned wringer
was on my grandmother’s delicate blouses. She watched the wringer carefully to
make sure the pressure was distributed evenly, and the students must regulate
the pressure they place on themselves as they slowly roll out their essays. Not
too much, not too little – just the right amount of sweet wringing to produce
paragraphs as dazzling as washed clothes.
* * * * *
ROAMING IN WRITING
“Then let
winged Fancy wander
Through
the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide
the mind’s cage door,
She’ll
dart forth, and cloudward soar.”
--Keats, in “Fancy”
In
teaching writing, I have always faced the daunting challenge of helping the
students be both disciplined and free in their writing, both organized and
untamed. Surely my students must learn to present their thoughts in an orderly
fashion, but just as surely they must allow those thoughts to do a little
skipping and cavorting among the paragraphs. The students must write in tidy
sentences, but those tidy sentences must have the freedom to occasionally roam
around – to be extra long now and then, or to make astonishing statements, or
to go off in a group of consecutive short sentences if that seems
suitable. Their writing must wear
form-fitting clothes, but it must also be free to occasionally throw them all
off and dance. In the poem by
Keats, the word “fancy” probably most closely translates as “imagination”, and,
as the poet suggests, I would like to encourage my students to let their
imaginations “wander” a bit as they write, though always keeping a firm hold on
the reins. There are uncharted territories of thought “spread beyond” my
students, and writing is all about roaming out among those far-flung thoughts.
When writing even the most formal of essays, the students must “open wide the
mind’s cage door” and travel out among the unexplored ideas in the outer
reaches of their lives. They must always keep control of their youthful
thoughts during the writing process, but that doesn’t imply staying close to
home. There’s a world of ideas to wander in out there, and that’s where I send
my students each time I assign an essay.
* * * * *
A STILL, SMALL VOICE
When
I started as a teacher many years ago, I did not use a still small voice. My
teaching voice back then was more piercing than still, more full-size and
confrontational than modest and self-effacing. I was a blurter, sometimes a
shouter, almost always a loud and strident talker. My teaching was like strong
winds and earthquakes and fires. I didn’t understand about the power of a still
small voice. Now, after four decades in the classroom, things are very
different. I find myself talking to my teenage students almost in a whisper.
There’s no clamor, no rough speaking, no blurts and outcries and sudden booming
words from me. I walk softly and carry no big sticks. There’s a lot more
stillness than clatter. With the quietness and gravity of the atmosphere in my
classroom, visitors might think they’re entering a shrine or perhaps a
mausoleum. However, despite (or
perhaps because of) the relatively
peaceful ambiance, we do, I think, get a lot accomplished in my classes. It’s
just that my voice is much quieter than it used to be. My noisy words have
turned into something more like butterflies than crows. What I say to the
students floats among them, and, who knows, maybe right past them and out the
windows. No matter. It makes more room for the students’ unsullied and
liberated words.
* * * * *
WANDERING AND
CHATTERING IN WRITING
This
morning, as I was walking down the hall at school, I heard a teacher in another
classroom say to her students, “No wandering or chattering”, and, oddly enough,
it got me thinking about teaching writing. As I continued walking, I wondered
whether that is actually the main message my students get from me in writing
class: Don’t wander in your writing.
Don’t chatter in your sentences. Just follow the directions, get to the point,
do the assignment. Do my
instructions for writing a high school essay sound like a bossy teacher trying
to keep recalcitrant students in line?
Do my students feel like their written sentences have to quietly march
in a straight line like a class of 3rd graders going down a hall?
It’s true that I do give explicit instructions for how to organize and
construct an essay, and many specific rules have to be followed, but I hope the
students also feel comfortable enough to let their words relax and smile a
little in the sentences. I hope my students realize that a little carefree
“chattering” among phrases and sentences can lend an enriching amount of
seasoning to a prim and proper academic essay. A writer, no matter how formal
the project might be, must always feel freer and more spontaneous than students
under the rule of a hardhearted teacher.
No matter how many guidelines my students are required to follow, I want
them to know that allowing their thoughts and words to amble and prattle a bit
as they’re writing could spread some needed life through the paragraphs.
* * * * *
IT IS GOOD FOR ME TO
BE HERE
When
I was a student, I rarely thought, as I sat in class, “Ah, it is good for me to be here.” In fact, I was
usually thinking it would be good if I were anywhere but this classroom. When I entered a classroom, I don’t recall ever
thinking that I had fortuitously arrive at a magnificent place, or that magical
intellectual makeovers could happen to me while I’m in this room, or that I
might never forget what occurs in this upcoming class. However, what’s odd is
that now, in my well-seasoned years, I do
think this way. After spending most of my life in a school of some sort, 44
of them as a teacher, I have at long last reached a point where school is,
indeed, an extraordinary adventure for me. What I used to dream about when I
sat indolent and bored in classroom after classroom has finally come true:
school has become place of renovation and exhilaration for me. I can’t wait to
get to school each morning. I can’t wait to see my students walk into my
classroom for 8th grade English. I’m often actually downcast when the school day is over. Of
course, I do have my bad days at school – many of them – but they’re like rainy
days in a year at the Grand Canyon: I’m fairly sure it will be beautiful
tomorrow. How did I get to this satisfying place in my professional life? How
have I become a more resourceful, ambitious, and keyed up teacher in my senior
years than I was as a foolhardy young instructor? Why do I feel younger than
probably many of my youthful colleagues? Why do I feel like I’m playing in a
sandbox when I’m teaching the poetry of Mary Oliver or the proper use of
semicolons? I don’t know, but I do know that, when I’m in Room 2 on Barnes
Road, it’s good for me to be there.
*
* * * *
WITNESSING
IN THE CLASSROOM
I
often like to think of myself as a witness in my classroom, someone who watches
carefully and can “testify” as to exactly what occurred. This seems to go
against the common perception of a teacher’s role – that of an active
participant, someone who is too busy guiding and pushing the students to take
time to be a passive witness. The teacher, we think, should be a contributor to
the class, not a watcher – a doer, not a spectator. If we visited a classroom
and saw a teacher just silently observing her students, perhaps for many
minutes, we might wonder if she’s dodging her duty. However, shouldn’t a
teacher also be a scientist of sorts? Isn’t part of a teacher’s responsibility
to study his students the way a
scientist studies material under a microscope? How can I effectively plan
beneficial activities for the students on Tuesday if I haven’t painstakingly
observed what they did on Monday – and how can I observe unless I step back
from the action and be a silent witness?
It’s hard for me, though – hard to quit talking and thinking and
bustling around the classroom, hard to just stop, get quiet, and look at what’s going on. I’ve never been
the scientific type – the kind of person who can watch something for a period
of time just to see what it does and how it works. Yet that, I think, is what’s
demanded of a good teacher– the willingness to observe the students as
carefully and intelligently as a wildlife biologist observes her subjects. I
have to learn to occasionally be a bystander, someone who pauses to see what’s
actually happening. If I did that more often – if I became more of a witness
than a performer – my “scientific” notes would surely tell of wondrous
occurrences among the scholars in Room 2.
* * * * *
THE POSSE IN ROOM 2
One of the
definitions of “apprehend” is “to arrest and take into custody”, which suggests
to me that the students and I do a great amount of law enforcement work in my
English classes. Scenes from old cowboy movies come to mind, where the sheriff
rides after a slippery outlaw, over hills and across deserts, and finally lassoes
and arrests him. In English class, you might say we, too, are chasing down
things that flee from us—themes, ironies, metaphors, interpretations, and such.
We vigilantly ride through stories and poems and essays, always on the lookout
for the “culprits” – the veiled meanings, the hidden motifs, the subtle
undertones and moods. These so often escape our notice when we are reading;
they seem to hide among the sentences like the bad guys hid in the rocks in old
Gene Autry movies. My youthful
scholars and I are determined, however, to apprehend these elusive details in a
work of literature – to hunt them down through close readings and insightful
discussions. Like the old-time sheriffs, who were often called “peace
officers”, we intend to bring some peace to our literary co-mates and ourselves
by uncovering the hiding place of truth in a short story or a poem. We are
determined to apprehend the essential significance of what we read, to take it
into custody in our minds, no matter how evasive and shifty it might be. We
don’t have lassoes or handcuffs, just pencils, paper, and dogged hearts. We’re
the posse in Room 2.
* * * * *
UNFINISHED BREEZES,
UNFINISHED CLASSES
Recently,
one of my classes was interrupted for a fire drill, and we ended up not being
able to properly finish the class.
Walking back to the classroom, I was feeling distressed about this for a
moment or two, but before I reached the classroom, a breeze brushed across my
face, and it changed my perspective completely. As I waited for the next group
of students, I asked myself whether a breeze is ever “properly finished”. Will
the breeze that blew past me come to a neat and tidy end somewhere? Will that
particular breeze, at some point and in some place, eventually be completed,
done, accomplished, and fulfilled? Will it curl up in the grass somewhere,
sighing and settling back and feeling like a skillful and productive breeze
that had done its job with utter thoroughness? Of course, these are silly
questions, and perhaps it’s just as silly for me to worry about leaving a
particular class unfinished. Both breezes and English classes are parts of
endless weather and educational systems and therefore they can’t be said to
start or finish anywhere. Both the weather and learning are constantly
occurring on an immeasurable scale, and passing puffs of air and short-lived
classes are simply momentary manifestations of these vast forces. Weather and
learning never stop, even though a breeze soon disappears and an English class
is dismissed. My interrupted class wasn’t unfinished at all. Like a passing
breeze, it was just gone, not
unfinished. In the vast landscape of our lives, the class was a fleeting few
moments of education for my students and me, and a zillion more moments are
still to come. It’s a single, immeasurable process, this extravaganza called
education. Nothing ever starts; nothing ever finishes. The breezes of learning
are always blowing, even during fire drills.
* * * * *
GOOD WANDERING
Most
teachers wouldn’t be flattered if someone used the word “wandering” to describe what the
students were doing in one of their classes, but I’ve grown to appreciate the
value of occasionally allowing my students to wander for a few minutes during
class – maybe to meander through some pages in a novel or drift back over their
essay drafts. I usually think of the work we do in class as focused and
product-driven, but surely there is room for the kind of wandering that can lead
to unexpected discoveries. When I aimlessly stroll through a forest, I always
come across a few surprises, and from time to time I like to encourage that kind
of unhampered, directionless wandering in my class. A discussion about a short story, for instance, could be at
its best when it rambles among many topics, stopping here and there when a
comment shines especially bright, going down any of countless paths when the
way opens up. Re-reading a chapter or a few pages could also be done in a
winding, roundabout, laid-back way, sort of the way you might wander through a
castle you first visited on an orderly guided tour. You have no particular
purpose other than discovery. You’re meandering because you want to be
surprised. In my classes, we usually do our academic work in fairly straight
lines (following specific directions, doing step-by-step assignments, aiming
for explicit goals, etc.), but I try to balance this measured marching with a
little unregulated roaming now and then.
Perhaps the students will stumble on revelations the way I often do when
I’m ambling through the woods, or when I’m turning down an unfamiliar but
appealing street on a bike ride.
* * * * *
DOING ART, DOING
ENGLISH
Yesterday
I supervised an art class when the teacher was out on a field trip, and, as I
watched the kids working on their drawing assignment, I admired what I saw—and
wondered why I don’t see more of it in my classes. The art students were
totally focused. Heads were bending over papers, hands were clutching markers and
moving them with care, and quietness was reigning. Close friends were side by
side, yet few words were spoken. All I could hear was the brushing and
squeaking of markers across papers and the occasional shifting of attentive
bodies in chairs. It occurred to me, with some sense of dismay, that this kind
of attentiveness doesn’t seem to happen very often in my own classes. I usually
see more vacant looks than intense gazes. There seems to be more lethargy than
passion, more daydreaming than concentration. I don’t mean to put myself down
completely, because my students are always quiet and well-behaved, and I know
there are times of curiosity and focus in my classes – but I’m afraid it
happens intermittently, whereas I’ll wager it happens regularly in art class. What I saw there today was kids doing art. They weren’t listening to a
teacher drone on about participles or semicolons; they were listening to their
own inner voices telling them precisely how to move the markers, and they were moving the markers. They
were engaged. They were absorbed in
work they enjoyed, and when the period was over, many were disappointed. They
had enjoyed doing art, whereas in my
classes I’m afraid the students do “listening to the teacher” more than they do
English.
* * * * *
TEACHING LIKE AUTUMN
LEAVES
Driving
along one of the picturesque roads in my part of the country one autumn day, I
noticed some leaves sailing along in the blustery wind, and I began wondering
if I could teach like that. I sensed an appealing kind of insouciance and
liberty as I watched the leaves toss and tumble in the air. They were going wherever the wind took
them. If I could imagine the leaves as people with feelings, they would be
people of the most relaxed and carefree type – people who know that resisting
harmless forces is a wasteful and hopeless pursuit. I wonder if I could teach
like that. I wonder if I could relax my guard more often, loosen up a little,
stop trying to control every millisecond of class time, drift a little with
whatever wind of learning is currently blowing in the classroom. I come to
class each day with a comprehensive and detailed lesson plan, which is
certainly important, but I wonder if it sometimes acts like a cumbersome anchor
that keeps me from letting the students sail with the power of whatever we’re
discussing or doing. I’m always thinking about the next step in the lesson
plan, when perhaps I should be paying closer attention to the gust of ideas
that’s just now swirling among the students. Maybe my lesson plans, ironically
enough, keep the class and me tied to the dock instead of sailing on the open
waters of learning. Leaves aren’t teachers, of course. Leaves have no choice
but to follow the wayward winds, whereas, I, as a teacher of teenagers, must
make many choices each day. I guess I hope I can occasionally choose to raise
anchor in English class and catch the good wind passing by, come what may.
* * * * *
A STRING QUARTET IN
ROOM 2
As
I was listening to a Brahms quartet the other day, once again enjoying the way
the melodic themes weave their way through from start to finish, I thought
about the “music” of my English classes. The artistic quality of the piece by
Brahms derives, in part, from the way the central melodies are intertwined
throughout the quartet. He starts with a theme, comes back to it again and
again (though in many variations), and brings the music to a close with a
strong final restatement of the theme. This overall unity and coherence helps
to make the music an enchanting work of art rather than just a collection of
agreeable sounds. On the other hand, I’m afraid many of my English classes are
simply collections of activities – nothing close to works of art. I do make
careful lesson plans, but I don’t think of them as artistic creations. I more
or less outline my goals and objective and the steps we will take to carry out
the activities, but I don’t think of myself as creating anything beautiful or
enchanting – just a successful English class. However, would it be possible to think of an English class as an art form?
Could I “paint”, “sculpt”, or “compose” my classes in such a way that a central
theme weaves its way through from start to finish? Could an English class be so
beautifully artistic that my students might stand and applaud at the end? Of course I’m stretching things there –
but seriously, why don’t we teachers
think of ourselves as artists? Why couldn’t I design my classes instead of plan them? Why couldn’t I – thinking
of Brahms – imbed a theme in every class, and make sure the theme intertwines
with all the activities? In a sense, I suppose I do try to build in unity and
coherence when I make my lesson outline, but only in a very pragmatic way. When
I plan my classes, I’m thinking of myself as a teacher, not an artist – as a
technician, not a creative designer. Could I change? When I sit at my desk to
make a lesson plan, could I picture myself painting on a canvas or composing at
a piano?
* * * * *
INVISIBILITY
Because
things that are not seen are often more useful and compelling than those
that are, I’ve been working lately on understanding – and developing – the uses
of invisibility in my classroom. For instance, one of my criteria for choosing
literature for the scholars to read is the presence of invisibility in the
pages – the presence of truths that cannot be seen, at least on a first
reading. I purposely choose poems and stories that have an aura of obscurity
and murkiness, so that the students have to wander in the dark for a while as
they sharpen their inner eyesight. I don’t mean that the literature is gloomy –
just that the gems and gold in the pages lie hidden from the eyesight of hasty,
lackadaisical readers. I’m also trying to appreciate the true invisibility of
each of my students. I occasionally fall back into the bad habit of thinking
that I “know” the scholars quite well, but the reality is that their true
selves are as invisible to me as stars in the daytime. I actually have no
working or helpful idea about the nature of the students’ inner lives, which,
of course, are their real lives. In
that sense, the scholars are invisible to me, a fact that I need to constantly
recognize and accept. A final fact that I’m working on welcoming and accepting
is the importance of invisibility in the teacher. I would like to be almost as
invisible as the wind. Like a wind, I want to stir up the students, blow some
new thoughts their way, perhaps utterly whip away some of their slapdash ideas
– but like a wind, I want to do it in a secret and concealed way,
imperceptibly. I want the voluble, front-and-center, all-controlling teacher to
disappear. After a productive class, I want the students to look around (while
I’m standing quietly in a corner) and wonder where all those good ideas came
from.
* * * * *
SCRAMBLING
One
day I realized, in a flash, that I believe in the value of a little
“scrambling” now and then in English class. The flash occurred in the middle of
a stirring lecture delivered after school to the teachers at my school, during
which the speaker (a well-known consultant) mentioned the idea of scrambling. I
don’t recall the exact context of the remark, but he was suggesting, I think,
that we need to consider scrambling our sometimes rigid approaches to class
sizes, age groupings, assignments, and other areas of our work with students.
We need to sometimes toss our best and most hallowed ideas into the figurative
frying pan, mix them up, and see what comes to pass. For some reason, the idea
– certainly not a new or world-shattering one—turned on a light inside me. I, who have always taught my students
the importance of taking an orderly approach to writing assignments, suddenly
began to picture what could happen if they occasionally took a rowdy and riotous approach. What if they
sporadically wrote an essay by tossing a bunch of disparate ideas into the
frying pan and doing a little scrambling? For example, what if I asked them to
write an essay about how Chapter 6 in To Kill a Mockingbird relates to,
let’s say, a sock, a bird’s nest, and a puffy cloud? Or what if we picked out
three random words from the dictionary, and they had to write a paper relating
the words to a Shakespeare sonnet? As I thought about it, my scrambling ideas
got even more lawless. What if I told the students to write some kind of paper (their choice) about
Chapter 6 in Mockingbird? I could give them some very simple rubrics for
grading (evidence of deep and inventive thinking would be at the top of the
list), but the rest of the assignment would be left to their best scrambling
techniques. Soon I found myself picturing myself preparing my occasional
scrambled egg breakfast. Yes, it is a rather haphazard, unlegislated process (a
few eggs, maybe three or four spices, and let’s see, perhaps some Tabasco and
wine vinegar, maybe some smoked cheese, or maybe not, possibly some leaves of
kale), but the end product, as it sits on a plate on my table, is quite
wonderful to behold—and eat. Everything got heedlessly scrambled into a
perfectly appetizing delight! Perhaps my students, at least now and then, could
do this type of scrambling in their writing – just toss words together, add
some spicy ideas, swirl it around, and see what the printer prints. It might
just be as attractive and enticing as my morning eggs – and maybe, in some
cases, more appealing than the time-honored, thoroughly arranged,
spick-and-span formal essay.
* * * * *
THE PARAGRAPH TREE
As
I stood outside looking up at a colorful fall tree during a free period, it
slowly came to me that good paragraphs are like trees. I allowed this idea to
expand for a few minutes, then walked eagerly back to my classroom and asked
the students coming in for the next class to join me outside. We stood beneath
the tree as it shook and rustled in the cold wind, and I asked the students if
they saw anything in the tree that reminded them of something we have learned
in English class. They shivered together and stared at the tree, with its
substantial trunk and three main branches and countless swaying limbs and
shaking leaves. Soon a girl said, “I guess it’s sort of like a paragraph.”
“Yeah,” a boy said, “the trunk is the topic of the paragraph,” and another boy
added “and the three big branches are the supporting points.” We trembled in
the wintry wind and talked for a moment more about the analogy — a small, quiet
girl said all the shivering leaves were like the words in your paragraph that
you hope will shiver inside the reader – and then returned to the classroom for
a lesson on irony. Every so often I glanced out at the tree as it bent and
bowed in the wind, the countless leaves shaking like lively words.
* * * * *
ESSAYS IN POTS
Out for a walk the other day, I passed a beautiful pot of
flowers on a doorstep, and it brought to mind the beautiful writing my students
often do. You might wonder how good writing can be compared to flowers that
have been trained, trimmed, and pressed into a pot, forced to grow where and
how we want them to grow, trained to look the way we want them to look – but I
actually feel fortunate to receive essays each week that are reminiscent of the
pots of flowers my mother used to keep on the back porch. The writing in these
essays may not be terribly creative or liberated or dazzling or unconventional,
but it is often orderly and clear, and there’s usually some kind of beauty to
be found in orderliness and clarity. An art masterpiece in the Louvre has
orderliness and clarity, as do chrysanthemums in a back porch pot, as do the
simple essays my 9th grade scholars share with me each week. As my
mother used to do with her flowers, the students sometimes treat their
sentences with great care, sensibly crafting them and placing them in
uncluttered arrangements that bring out the distinctive qualities of their
words. They gently “plant” them in an essay, you might say, and then they
present the essay to me the way you might give a carefully wrapped gift to
someone. I haven’t received a pot of flowers in years, if ever, but each week I
get dozens of essays, many made up of neatly arranged paragraphs in full bloom
before my eyes.
* * * * *
SCATTERING WORDS
As
I was enjoying my grandson’s company at a playground, I also enjoyed the look
of the autumn leaves scattered on the floor of the nearby forest, and before
long they led me to think about the teaching of writing. The leaves were
beautiful as they lay in a sodden and confused clutter among the trees. There
was obviously no order to their arrangement, no formula to their placement
among the trees, and yet they made a perfectly beautiful picture. They were an
untidy but lovely jumble. Recently I’ve been wondering, and I got to thinking
about it again yesterday, if there might be room for a similar “lovely jumble”
in the essays I ask my students to write. I teach them to write well-planned
and highly structured papers, but could there be room among the methodical
paragraphs for the kind of strewn and speckled beauty I saw in the woods? If
the students occasionally scattered words though a sentence the way they might
unreservedly spread their laughter among friends, would a reader perhaps sense
something special in the writing? I’ve read some beautiful formal essays this
year, but none more beautiful than the informal disarray of leaves I saw near
the playground.
* * * * *
KNOWLEDGE AND
ACKNOWLEDGE
Teaching
has something to do with knowledge, of course, but I’ve been realizing lately
that it also has much to do with acknowledging.
When we acknowledge someone,
we express total recognition of the presence or existence of that person, and,
as odd as this may sound, it’s one of the greatest challenges I face as a
teacher. Since I come into contact each day with dozens of young people, each
with countless impenetrable character traits and each with an inner life as
complex as the largest galaxy, it is a daily challenge to fully accept them –
to acknowledge them as the infinite miracles they are. It’s easy, when faced
with the complexities of teaching so many diverse, multifaceted, and unique
human beings, to simply scan them superficially for 48 minutes, working through
the step-by-step lesson and largely ignoring the depth and breadth of the lives
that sit before me. It’s an easy habit for a teacher to fall into – sort of
riding the lesson plan through a class period the way you might ride a jet-ski
over the water, while the real lives of the students wait unseen along the
shore. Of course, I have a curriculum to teach and goals to meet, but I should
be able to do that and also fully acknowledge the inscrutable lives of my
students. My students are not machines to be fine-tuned or engines to be
tested. They are oceans of ideas, vast mountain ranges of distant peaks and
secret valleys, skies of thoughts that never end. Until I acknowledge the
immensity of their lives, until I truly acknowledge their inner greatness,
until I recognize that I’m dealing with dozens of unknowable human enigmas each
day, my teaching will be strictly superficial and silly, like taking a snapshot
of the sky and pretending that you therefore understand it.
* * * * *
DISCOVERING A LESSON
PLAN
I’ve
been slowly realizing, over the long years of my career, that I don’t make lesson plans for my classes: I discover them. The idea that I can
actually create lessons for my students—can fashion and produce something that
didn’t exist before—now seems silly to me. I no longer have this picture of
myself as a shrewd and astute educator who can build the exact lessons that his
students need to grow wiser. The truth is that I am not a builder, not a
creator, not a wise maker of ingenious curricula – but rather an explorer, a
hopeful and alert traveler on the lookout for good ideas. Lesson plans are ideas, and I don’t
believe ideas are made – just discovered. They drift through me and around me
by the zillions, and every so often I’m lucky enough to notice and collect one
that seems fitting for an 8th grade English class. I’m a voyager in
a universe of ideas that have been shining somewhere for eons, and sometimes a
dazzling one comes into my ken and I set it into a lesson plan. I don’t make
the ideas any more than an astronomer makes the stars. We both just watch and
wait and hope.
* * * * *
A+ for CONSISTENCY
The
other day, at a meeting about students, I threw out the casual remark that a
certain student was “inconsistent”, but later I wished I hadn’t been so brusque
and blasé about it. As I thought about the comment over lunch, I realized that,
at least in one sense, no student is
inconsistent. If consistency means a level of performance that does
not vary greatly, then all my students are consistent thinkers. They are always thinking – always entertaining thoughts
of widespread variety and freewheeling power. While I’m muttering to myself
about their inconsistency in paying attention to my lesson, the scholars are
being exceedingly consistent in welcoming the multitudinous thoughts (on topics
ranging from skateboards to the weekend to – with a bit of luck—my lesson) that
waft their way during a 48-minute English class. At the next meeting, perhaps I
should say, when asked about any student’s performance in my class, “Oh she’s a
very consistent thinker. She’s always thinking. I’ll give her an A+ for that.”
* * * * *
WHO (OR WHAT) DOES
THE WRITING?
Years ago, I read somewhere that writers in medieval times
sometimes did not sign their writings because they believed God had actually
written them – and I’ve always found a grain of good sense in that approach to
authorship. I’m not a religious person in the traditional sense (I don’t
believe in the conventional God who rewards some and punishes others), but I do
have great respect for the immeasurable force (whatever name it might be given)
that surrounds and saturates this universe of which we writers are a part. When
my students write, words somehow come to rest in their essays, but how this happens
is a wide-ranging mystery. To take the easy path and say the students’ brains
create the words is like saying that clouds create rain. The origins of every
raindrop go infinitely far back to the origins of the entire universe, and the
origins of the words in the students’ essays are every bit as shrouded in
vastness and timelessness. It’s convenient for the students to put their names
on their papers, just as it would be convenient to say the bulb creates the
light in my desk lamp, even though forces far more immense and complex than a single
student or light bulb actually do the creating.
* * * * *
YO-YOING AT FACULTY
MEETINGS
I
occasionally do a few tricks with my old yo-yo, and I sometimes feel like doing
it during faculty meetings, especially those in which we pass judgment and set
labels on kids. I’m fairly good at yo-yoing, but I have no skill in judging and pigeonholing people. Who am I, for heaven’s
sake, to presume that I can analyze, classify, and label another human being?
You may as well ask me to analyze the movements of the stars or paste a label
on a cyclone. I know what my students do,
but I have no idea why they do it. I can be fairly competent in describing student behavior, but not in
branding that behavior, giving it a name, putting it in a category, placing an
identifying sticker on it. It’s hard for me to sit in these meetings and
pretend that I understand the inner-lives of kids who are as multifaceted as
the solar system. Something I do understand is how yo-yos work, and one of these
days my colleagues may see me rise from my seat and begin doing
rock-the-cradles.
* * * * *
DEATH IN ENGLISH
CLASS
In
the fall, a lot of death is evident in the trees in my part of the country (New
England), and, surprising as it may sound, I hope a lot of another kind of
death is evident in my English classes. While the multicolored leaves are
floating down from the trees outside my classroom, old ideas of a wide variety
are, I hope, dying and drifting away inside my students’ minds. Each week, I
hope the floor of my student’s minds are littered with layers of old, crinkly,
cast-off ideas, because how else can there be room for new ones? Leaves die to
provide space and nutrition for new growth in the spring, and used-up, useless
ideas must quietly die so that new thoughts can bud and blossom. It’s an old story in nature that the
old must make room for the young, and the same is true for thoughts. And who
knows, perhaps dying thoughts, in a way, are just as beautiful as the dying
autumn leaves. The leaves show us their best beauty as they depart, and the
aged thoughts of my adolescent students may also show some blaze and sparkle as
they sail away during an English class discussion. I sometimes picture in my
mind the dog-eared, dilapidated, but strangely colorful ideas floating away
from the young people as new ideas arrive. I picture myself walking around the
classroom, stepping lightly on the refuse of jettisoned teenage thoughts.
* * * * *
CUTTING AND CARING
As
the years have passed, I have grown increasingly interested in developing a
sense of precision in my classroom. I don’t mean a finicky and slavish devotion
to nit picking, just a sensible commitment to exactness and accuracy of
expression or detail. The word “precise” comes from the Latin word for “cut”,
and I would like to encourage all of us (my students and me) to “cut out” the
details of each activity with confident meticulousness. As if we are working
with high-level artist scissors, each facet of an action should be created with
the ultimate kind of attention and regard. It seems to me that nature works this way. The wing of a
butterfly is a model of exactitude, as is the landscape of never-ending stars
above us, as are the zillion intricate cells within our bodies. Everything in
the wide natural world, from a snowflake to a v-shaped string of geese in the
sky, is specific, detailed, and explicit, and we try to aim for that in my
classroom. Another word to use would be “accurate”, which I like because it
comes from the Latin word for care. I want to promote a sense of caring in my
students and me – the awareness that all things need to treated with sincere
and compassionate care, including English assignments. When the students are
accurate in their work on an essay, they are caring for it – watching over the sentences and nurturing the
paragraphs until the essay comes to a fulfilling finishing point. When they read with precision, they are
caring for the ideas and images
contained in the words the way they would care for anything special and
precious. It’s a good way to live, this caring for things in a precise and
conscientious manner, whether in a small English classroom or in our larger,
often loose and imprecise lives.
* * * * *
PRIM BUT PECULIAR
I
often ask my students to write in a rather formal manner, but I also encourage
them to occasionally mix some funkiness with the formality. I want their
sentences to be clear and orderly, but also a little jazzy now and then—a bit
of glitz and flashiness in the midst of their neat and methodical paragraphs. I
thought about this again the other day when I was reading a student’s very tidy
essay and came across these words: “Mr. Radley took his pants, messily fixed
them up, and placed them primly on the fence.” The phrase “messily fixed them
up” took me by surprise. It had a funky feel to it, a strange and distinctive
quality that jumped up from the page. It was as if the voice of this girl—who,
like all students, is one of a kind – had suddenly and unmistakably spoken in
the middle of her spick-and-span academic essay. The entire essay was a model
of order and clarity, but there were a number of places, like this one, where
the inner flashiness of this student could clearly be seen – places where the
words, in a sense, broke the dress code. The writing was prim but also
peculiar, stylish but also surprising. It’s a good way to write, I think—sort
of like showing up for an interview in a neatly pressed suit and brand new
black sneakers.
* * * * *
ON SHUTTING UP
At
a meeting last night, I’m glad I had a cold and didn’t feel up to participating
in the discussion, because by shutting up and listening, I understood how much
wisdom existed in these people sitting around me. Normally, I jump headfirst into a discussion, throwing out
ideas almost like punches. To me, group conversations often seem like organized
melees, with me right in the middle, throwing my mental and verbal weight
around with little restraint. In a typical discussion, I don’t think I very
often genuinely listen to anyone else, since I’m too busy listening to my own
noisy mind. Last night was different. Because I knew I wasn’t going to talk at
the meeting, I settled into a complete listening mode, as if the doors of my
mental house were wide open. The ideas shared by the people at the meeting
entered my mind with total effortlessness, maybe because they felt a welcoming
attitude. Instead of reacting to
the ideas, I simply accepted them. Instead of glancing at them quickly and
waving them away, I let them in and took a good look at what they brought
along. What it showed me was how
wise all these people were – how really full of sensible and insightful ideas
they were. I sat there in an actual state of amazement. If there was this much
wisdom in this meeting, how much have I missed in all the other meetings by
talking so much that I couldn’t hear the other participants’ ideas knocking on
the door? By not shutting up and really listening, how much knowledge did I
leave waiting just outside my life?
* * * * *
ON NOT CHOOSING FOR
OURSELVES
The
right and the ability to choose for oneself has generally been considered a
privilege that teachers should increasingly bestow on students as they move up
through the grades, and I agree – sort of. Certainly I want to help my students
develop the ability to look through options on their own and then make an
informed choice. That’s a known requirement for intelligent participation in a democratic
society. In fact, the journey from
childhood to adulthood might be described as the journey from almost never
choosing for oneself to doing it regularly. However, there’s a troubling trace
of egocentricity hidden in the phrase “choosing for yourself”, for it suggests
that we might be closing our doors and windows and focusing primarily on our
own ideas and desires. It implies
a narrow-minded approach to choosing, in which our minds are, figuratively
speaking, as tapered and constricted as a narrow window, through which we see
mostly our own relatively meager knowledge and our own special needs. Rather
than choose for themselves, I guess I would like to encourage my students, and
myself, to choose for – and with –
others. I would like us to
always remember that any choice affects not only ourselves, but an infinite
number of people and situations. In a sense, choosing for ourselves is not even
an option, since we are everlastingly connected to the entire cosmos, and
whatever choice we make will ripple out to distant, imperceptible shores. You might say we never choose for
ourselves, but always for the whole world. Because this is true, I also
want to encourage us (my students and me) to choose with the whole world – that
is, with the assistance of all the wise people waiting to help us. The older I
get (and I’m 68 now), the more clearly I see that there are countless numbers
of learned people who could be of assistance to my students and me in making
choices. Since our individual knowledge is downright paltry compared to the
bountiful knowledge that flows through the universe, and through the people we
meet, my students and I need to be at least as focused on choosing with these people as on choosing by, and
for, ourselves. We need to drop the pretense that we can always determine by
ourselves exactly what we need to do, and learn to humbly ask for help and
direction. In fact, humility may
be the key virtue students and teachers need to develop – the ability to see
and take advantage of the never-ending knowledge that resides in others. We
need to be humble—and prudent—enough to put a sign outside our door that says,
“Come in. I have a choice to make, and I need your wise help.”
* * * * *
WALKING THROUGH BOOKS
As
I was driving hurriedly to meet some friends for a quick lunch today, I began
thinking that this is probably the way most of my students read – by hurrying.
When they’re reading the latest popular book, they most likely speed through
the pages, restless to get to the next exhilarating point in the story. There’s
probably very little lingering or savoring when they’re reading for pure
pleasure. Like me rushing to lunch
today, my students no doubt rush from chapter to chapter as they’re swept along
by the captivating plot. When they come to my English class, however, they have
to travel through books in a very different manner. In my classes, we walk through books, sometimes very
slowly. I ask the students to think of To Kill a Mockingbird as a
beautiful forest that needs to be slowly and carefully explored. Just as we
probably wouldn’t drive speedily through a national park and then wave goodbye,
I ask the students to walk the trails of Harper Lee’s book the way they might
walk the pathways of a scenic woodland—with watchfulness and inquisitiveness.
As I was speeding my way to lunch, I surely missed countless treasures along
the way – the flaring autumn trees, the old-world homes, the meadows with their
seed-filled bounty – and I wonder how many treasures my students (and all of
us) miss when they race through books like they’re simply streets to take them
somewhere. Great books are not streets. The pages don’t take us to some
destination. Each page – each sentence and word – is a destination, and
only by reading with a special kind of love and attention can we enjoy the
destination that arises before us in each and every sentence. In my class, we
often linger over one sentence, exploring it the way we might explore a small
cluster of flowers along a trail. We often stop to examine the usefulness of a
single word, and to marvel at the total suitability of that word in that
particular place on the page. As we unhurriedly walk through books in my
classroom, it’s often a long and exhausting journey, and as a result, we don’t
read as many books in a year as other English classes do. However, what’s
important to me is not how many books we read, but how well, how deeply, how
lovingly – and I’d give my students and me ‘A’s for that.
* * * * *
NO EXPECTATIONS
Teachers,
including me, often talk about having high expectations for students’ work, but
there might also be some benefit in having absolutely no expectations. The word
comes from the Latin word for “look”, and when we have expectations of any
kind, we are looking for some particular kind of result. We have one specific
goal for the students to aim for, and we look for that precise goal and no
other. It’s a commendable and often necessary approach to teaching, but we have
to realize there’s a certain amount of blindness associated with it. When I’m
expecting a specific result from the students, I’m unavoidably blind to the
countless other possible results that might arise from their work on an
assignment. On an essay, a student’s ideas might parade by me on beautiful
sentences, but I might not notice them because of my fixated focus on some
other expected result. When I’m looking for a certain flower on a mountain
trail, how many unforeseen and startling sights do I miss?
* * * * *
ORDERLY
FLAIR
I recall hearing
about a sailor leaving on a six-month deployment who wore a small clearly
visible golden bracelet on his wrist at the official departure ceremony. His
uniform was squeaky clean and he stood at strict attention as the ship pulled
out to sea, but the out-of-dress-code bracelet, a gift from his girlfriend,
shimmered in the sunlight for all to see. That’s what I call orderly flair, and it’s what I try to
encourage in my student writers. The students must conform to the severe
requirements of unity and coherence (the qualities which make it easy for a
reader to get a writer’s meaning), but I also want them to be unafraid to show
some flashes of flair among their sentences. The sailor wore his strict uniform
and the bright bracelet, and the students should feel free to dress up a
sentence now and then with a showy simile or a string of multicolored
adjectives. Panache comes to mind here– the kind of flamboyant confidence that
allows a teenage essayist to string together a 70-word sentence that moves with
evenness and grace. Élan might also
describe what I’m looking for in my students’ essays. They must write with
tidiness and consistency, yes, but also with style and zest. Their sentences
must march to the beat of the assignment, but let there be some clandestine
skipping and dancing here and there.
Let them write with clarity, but may the clarity be clothed with
young-at-heart flamboyance.
* * * * *
3-D IN THE CLASSROOM
One
afternoon, as I was walking in the park, I was struck by the three-dimensional
beauty of a particularly massive oak tree and the vista behind it. I stopped
and stared for several minutes, appreciating the fact that my vision could see
the depth of the scene – the limbs closest to me, then the limbs further and
further back, and finally, in the distance, the immaculate meadow and the many
distant trees. I was rather dumbstruck by this great gift I had been given –
this ability to see our world in its depth and solidness. I heard somewhere
that a new 3-D movie will be released soon, but I have no interest, for my 3-D
movies are all around me -- even in my classroom. Unfortunately, I almost never
recognize the full value of what’s happening before my eyes as I’m teaching. I
rarely stop and recall the fact that there is a kind of dazzling depth not only
in the physical appearance of the students and the classroom, but more
importantly, in the lives of the students. If the tree and the park seemed vast
to me this afternoon, how might my students’ lives appear to me if I could see
them in their unbounded immensity and intricacy? I might feel like I should pay
admission to see the astonishing 3-D movies each day in my classroom.
* * * * *
CONFORMITY DIVINE
Reading
Book XI of Paradise Lost before
school one morning, I came across the phrase “conformity divine”, and, thinking
about it later, I wondered if that’s what I’m asking from my English students.
Conformity, after all, is not always a negative act, one of self-abasement and
selling out. In its purest sense, the word simply means fitting into a form –
adapting one’s self to a particular method or a specific arrangement. When I
dress for school each morning, in a sense I am “conforming”, since I’m fitting
myself into forms of clothes that appeal to me – clothes that help me present
an appealing “form” both to myself and to the public. If I studied the art of
welding, I’m sure I would conform to the methods and strategies of my welding
teacher – and I would become a better welder by doing so. Even something as
simple as water filling a pot speaks of the naturalness and grace of
conformity. As the water flows into the pot, it effortlessly adapts to the
shape of the pot, a type of conformity that water has been stylishly performing
for eons. I guess I want my students to conform the way water does – naturally
and elegantly. When their thoughts flow into an essay, I hope the words fill up
the sentences and paragraphs like water fills up a pot, with ease. I hope the
students can adjust to the constraints of each writing assignment the way a
stream flows easily into narrow channels and then simply spreads out when the
banks widen. With water, conformity is always beautiful – “divine”, as Milton
has it – and I hope it can be so with my students.
* * * * *
A FOUNDATION-LESS
CLASSROOM
Like
most of us, I was trained to conduct each class on a firm foundation – a
rock-hard lesson plan with specific goals and objectives—but over the years I
have gradually come to realize that, in fact, there’s never any solid
foundation under my teaching, no matter how much I may pretend otherwise. Of course, in the small picture, the
one that shows me in my little classroom with my handful of students, it does
seem possible to construct a sure foundation, an unshakable base that will enable
us to reach specific and detailed goals.
If, in this small picture, I think of myself as an engineer and my
students as malleable materials that can be manipulated to reach certain ends,
then yes, I should be able, with my engineering mind, to set up a foundation
for each class that will make these manipulations possible. If architects can
construct enormous buildings by laying down sure underpinnings, then I should
be able to build a successful lesson each day with the same approach. There’s
one hitch, however: teaching is all about a much bigger picture, one that
involves human beings, and human beings are not buildings. My young students
are more like cyclones or skies or shoreless seas than buildings. Thinking I
can lay a dependable foundation for a class with living, breathing teenagers is
like thinking I can capture a cyclone or organize the sky or measure the sea.
It’s a foolish kind of confidence. Yes, I will continue to design careful
lesson plans, but it’s like the sailor who sets out to cross the Atlantic solo in
his meticulously designed boat: He really
has no idea what will happen. I pretend that I know what’s going to occur
in each class, and why and when, but the truth is that I’m setting out in a
very small boat, with breath held and fingers crossed. The lessons I
painstakingly plan are like carefully fashioned good luck charms, and no more.
Once class starts, all bets are off, the anchors are up, and who knows where
the winds of learning will take us in this spacious universe.
* * * * *
INVESTITURE AND DIVESTITURE
IN ENGLISH CLASS
Since
I discovered recently that the etymology of the word “invest” suggests a
putting on of clothes (L. vestis,
clothing), I’ve been thinking about my classes as a type of investment for the students. If we think
of thoughts as the clothing our minds put on, I hope the students can leave
each class wearing a brand new outfit of ideas. Hopefully every time they come
to my class they can take off an old belief or two and dress themselves in a
fresh and stylish one. We might even think of English class as a ritual of
divestiture and investiture, in which old ways of thinking are officially taken
off and set aside, and new robes of advanced thinking are ceremoniously donned.
In this way, the students have a chance to feel special in each class, like
they might feel when they put on a startling new shirt.
* * * * *
IN THE MIDDLE OF
NOWHERE
Not
long ago, I overheard someone say they were hiking in a forest and soon found
themselves “in the middle of nowhere”, and it reminded me of one of my more unusual
goals for my 9th grade students: I
would like them to feel somewhat lost in each class. I hope they
occasionally feel befuddled, bewildered, dumbfounded, maybe even a little
frightened by what I ask them to do. If, when we’re working on a new writing
technique or exploring a new work of literature, they feel like they’re “in the
middle of nowhere”, I say good for them, for now they can have the stirring
experience of finding their way to somewhere. We often forget that in order to
experience enlightenment we have to first be in darkness – that the pleasure of
knowledge can only come after the discontent of ignorance. If my students are
never “in the middle of nowhere” when they’re reading a poem, how will they
feel the thrill of finding the somewhere of the poem’s heart and soul? In a
sense, teaching English, for me, is about creating darkness so the students can
better appreciate light. We don’t read “easy” books in my class – books that
are totally filled with light – because then no finding, sighting, unearthing,
uncovering, or stumbling upon is possible, and aren’t these what learning is
all about? I force my students to read indistinct and shadowy books and work
their way through foggy essay assignments, because there’s always the
possibility of some sudden light ahead.
* * * * *
A VERY OLD STUDENT
Every
so often, the thought comes to mind that my teenage students know more than I
do. Of course, being about four times older than they are, I’m more
knowledgeable in certain areas (thought not by much, I fear), but in other
areas, they are the professors and I’m the humble pupil. Today, for instance, I
was supposedly leading the children in a discussion of how to use an online
research tool. Fairly quickly, however, I began to have the feeling all of us
educators occasionally have, that the canoe of my teaching was rapidly moving
into wild waters. I realized, in other words, that I had very little idea what
I was talking about. I realized that not only couldn’t I answer the students’
questions about the technology at hand, but I didn’t even understand their
questions. Quickly, though, some handy honesty came to my rescue. I simply
asked the students, “Can anyone help me figure out how this works?” Quickly a
girl threw out a lifeline: “Sure, Mr. Salsich. First you do this …. and then
you do this ...” and she proceeded to lead the class (and me) through a speedy
lesson on how to make this digital tool useful. As I watched and listened, I
noticed that many of the other students joined her in demonstrating its
usefulness, and soon I began to feel like I was the only student in a roomful
of teachers. I’m not quite sure why, but I felt lucky. I sat back in the chair,
relaxed, and took pleasure in the experience – a grandfather being taught by a
class of accommodating and erudite teenagers.
* * * * *
STUDENTS AS TEACHERS
For
thousands of years, human beings believed the earth was in charge of the
universe and the sun merely one of its satellites, and for thousands of years
we have believed that the adult is the only teacher in the classroom and the
children the only students—but what if the second belief is as flawed as the
first? I actually ponder this occasionally. What if, someday in the future, it
becomes indisputably clear that we were wrong in our assessment of how
education works? What if it turns out that the young students were actually the
best teachers all along, and the certified adult educator was actually as much
a pupil as a teacher? Strange is it sounds, is it any stranger than thinking,
back in the Middle Ages, that the sun might actually be the center of the
universe and the earth merely a minor satellite? Surely that would have been
considered a crazy notion, but perhaps not much crazier than the idea that the
students might be the finest teachers in the classroom. I’ve seen hints of this
countless times. My students regularly teach me (and each other) new truths
about the literature we read. I recall, for instance, being in class
discussions about poems I thought I thoroughly understood – poems I had loved
for decades – and listening quietly as the 8th grade scholars turned
the light of their young thoughts on the lines and showed me new doors into the
poem. I recall listening with a strange kind of respect and astonishment as
13-year-olds explained a sentence in To
Kill a Mockingbird that had always perplexed me -- listening to teenagers
unveil for me the meaning of a metaphor in The Tempest -- listening to
young scholars explain to their senior-citizen teacher Pip’s adolescent sadness
in Great Expectations. Of course, I am the professional educator in my
classroom, so I hope I do a considerable amount of teaching, but I wonder who
is really the center of the teaching. Is it me with all my years of pedagogic
experience and degrees and weighty how-to-teach books and cumbersome theories,
or is it the spirited and almost-brand-new people sitting before me in class?
Am I the central source of light in my classes, or does the brightest light
perhaps come from the youngest people in the room, my teenage students who seem
to have nothing but new ideas arising inside them. I recall a famous person
saying something about the kingdom of God being found where children are, and I
sometimes think the kingdom is in Room 2.
* * * * *
GIVING IN ENGLISH
CLASS
Each
year, as we enter the annual season of giving, I’m reminded of the noteworthy
role that giving plays in English class. Each class is really a ceaseless
process of giving – a process that happens whether or not my students and I
want it to, and no matter what kind of learning (or anti-learning) mood we’re
in. In fact, what we most obviously give is our moods. As soon as we enter the
classroom, we distribute our moods to each other, giving our facial
expressions, postures, and words as surely as we give gifts during the holiday
season. Often we give our expressions of cheerfulness, our postures of
awareness and consideration, and our words of friendship and decorum. However,
if we’re in a harsh mood, then the gift we give each other will be harsh – but
it’s still a gift, one we give by simply being present with other people. My
favorite kind of giving in the classroom is simply the giving of ideas. My
students and I present countless ideas to each other during a 48-minute English
class. If ideas were physical objects, you would see us constantly offering
each other packages of special thoughts – some brightly wrapped, some casual
and unadorned, even some with scarred and scary appearances (but still
gifts). Usually, of course, these
gifts of ideas come enclosed in words. From the start of class to the end,
there’s a stream of words passing among the students and me like a constant
sharing of presents. Each word we speak is filled with extraordinary surprises
– the exclusive feelings and thoughts that only we could have created – and
they’re wrapped in the distinctive sound of our voices. They’re not always
given with tenderness and good cheer, but they are given, because that’s
what words do: they give themselves, by the tens of thousands, in every English
class.
* * * * *
DESTINY AND TEACHING
“Maggie’s
destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must wait for it to reveal itself
like the course of an unmapped river; we only know that the river is full and
rapid ….”
--from
The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot
I
make careful plans for my courses each summer, and I make detailed lesson plans
each day, and yet, underneath it all, I know the “destiny” of my teaching is
strictly, in Eliot’s phrase, “an unmapped river”. To stay with the analogy,
making plans for classes is like a river traveler sketching an outline of what
he hopes might happen in the next
unknown stretch of an unexplored river. It’s comforting, and in some ways
helpful, for the traveler to do this, but he has to realize that a large amount
of pretending and air-castle-building is involved. In truth, he is totally
ignorant of the countless possible scenarios (good and bad) that could lie
ahead, just as I am as I make my rosy teaching plans. Of course, there’s some
good news in all this, because it brings the quirky and adventurous element of
teaching to the forefront. My work as a teacher of teenagers is oddly similar
to traveling a nameless river, but that’s part of the pleasure of it. Each day
I enter my classroom as I might enter one of Conrad’s steamers on a jungle
river, fearful for the bumbling and failure that might lie ahead but keyed up
at the prospect of surprising sights and discoveries.
* * * * *
SWEET CONVERSE
“…the
sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose
words are images of thoughts refin’d.”
--John
Keats, in the sonnet “O Solitude”
I
love these lines for many reasons, one of which is that they remind me of some
of my English classes. Without doubt, many of my classes over the years have
been neither sweet nor “refin’d”, but some of them do bring back memories of
gracious discussions and classy ideas. When my students engage in discussions,
they try their best to be “innocent”, to use the poet’s word, which, according
to its etymology, originally meant
“not hurtful”. I encourage the students to be frank and free in their comments,
but never insensitive. Their minds are sharpening in these teenage years, but
their words in my class must always be rounded with the smoothness of good
will. Actually, many of their words spoken during class discussions are, as
Keats put it, “images of thoughts refin’d”, simply because the thoughts which
produced the words have been tumbling around in their minds for a time, the way
stones tumble in a polishing machine. True, sometimes their words come from
thoughts born out of the blue, but often they arise from ideas that have been
quietly buffed up in the back-room laboratories of their minds. Even students
who blurt are often blurting thoughts that subconscious processes have
carefully filtered and purified, sometimes over a long period of time. It
pleases me to think that Keats (a favorite poet of mine) might have enjoyed
some of my classes, because they have, occasionally, involved “sweet converse”.
Thinking of the origins of the word, when the students conversed in those good
classes, they figuratively “turned around” toward each other – away from their
self-absorbed preoccupations and toward each other, to better appreciate the
“thoughts refin’d” – the surprisingly sophisticated ideas – of their
classmates.
* * * * *
BEAUTIFUL AND SIMPLE
“We
perhaps never detect how much of our social demeanor is made up of artificial
airs until we see a person who is at once beautiful and simple; without the
beauty, we are apt to call simplicity awkwardness.”
-- George
Eliot, The Mill on the Floss
When
I read these words over breakfast this morning, I suddenly understood what I’ve
been looking for in my students’ writing all these years: simplicity and beauty. I was taken aback by the clarity of the
insight: all the students need to do to create successful academic papers is
make their writing clear-cut and at least somewhat beautiful. When I talk with
the kids about writing, I often get over-involved in unnecessarily complex
guideline, rules, and requirements, forgetting how simple it is to describe good
writing: it’s direct and, you might say, well-dressed. Of course, it’s not always easy to do this kind of
writing, but it might be easier, now, to explain what makes it good. Of course,
I must remember that both qualities
are necessary. As Eliot suggests, anything that has simplicity without beauty,
including writing, can verge on clumsiness and dullness, and beauty without
simplicity is often nothing more than flamboyance. I want my writing students to find the lucky combination –
the blending of straightforwardness and style. It’s really as simple as that.
* * * * *
GRAVITY, KINDNESS,
AND PROMISE
“[Maggie]
saw it was Dr. Kenn’s face that was looking at her; that plain, middle-aged
face, with a grave, penetrating kindness in
it, seeming to tell of a human being who had reached a firm, safe strand, but
was looking with helpful pity toward the strugglers still tossed by the waves,
had an effect on Maggie at this moment which was afterward remembered by her as
if it had been a promise. The middle-aged, who have lived through their
strongest emotions, but are yet in the time when memory is still half
passionate and not merely contemplative, should surely be a sort of natural
priesthood, whom life has disciplined and consecrated to be the refuge and
rescue of early stumblers and victims of self-despair.”
--
from George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss
I
have often been accused of excessive idealism (I happily embrace the
description), so my appreciation of this passage will not surprise my friends:
I entirely agree with what Eliot suggests about the role older people,
including older teachers, can play. I take pleasure in the fact that, at the
age of 68, I can show “a grave, penetrating kindness” toward my students. At
this point in my life, it’s not a silly, irresponsible kindness, one that
simply wants to win over the students and become their “friend”, but rather a
kindness that has some weightiness behind it and can occasionally penetrate
into the heart of a situation. It’s a kindness, I might say, that wears work
gloves rather than kid gloves, a kindness that delivers itself to the students
more like strong medicine than a sugary soft drink. In Eliot’s words, I feel
like I have, in some sense, “reached a firm, safe strand”, from where I can,
indeed, offer a helping hand to the “strugglers”, my somewhat scatterbrained,
befuddled, and brave teenage students. Having lived 54 more years than they,
I’ve been there, done that so often that I can, to some degree, show the way to
these nomadic souls in my classes. Perhaps, as the author suggests, older
teachers like me can stand before our students like a “promise” – a guarantee
that the darkness can eventually become a little lighter. She uses the words “natural priesthood”,
which might smack of egotism and false pride, but there may be some truth in
the idea that a senior teacher can fulfill the role of a “priest”, who, to use
the original Greek definition, could be thought of as simply an “elder”,
someone who’s been through the wars, survived, and returned to offer
instructions and warnings. And after all, don’t these young people in our
classrooms need that? In the midst of the pandemonium and dread of these times,
don’t they need, to hear words from the enduring veterans of life’s wars, words
that carry gravity, kindness, and promise?
* * * * *
ABOVE SUCCESS OR
FAILURE
“…
even the coming pain could not seem bitter,—she was ready to welcome it as a
part of life, for life at this moment seemed a keen, vibrating consciousness
poised above pleasure or pain. This
one, this last night, she might expand unrestrainedly in the warmth of the
present, without those chill, eating thoughts of the past and the future.”
--
from George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss
My
teenage English scholars are probably too young for this, but my hope for them
is that, like Maggie Tulliver, they can stay “poised above pleasure or pain” (high
grades-low grades, success- failure), and simply enjoy “the warmth of the
present.” I have the distressing feeling, as I look out on the students during
class, that few of them are enjoying the present. I fear they have already
become members of the obsessed-with-the-past-and-future club that most adults
belong to. I fear their minds are not on the matter at hand (which, like any
present moment, glows with an inner light to those who are enough in attendance
to notice it) but on the D or A that might await them on this week’s essay
assignment. They are often as far away from my lesson as if they’re sitting in
a darkened room fretting about the darkness while a lamp right beside them
simply needs to be lit. My hope for them is that they can, at least
occasionally, be struck with the understanding that pain and pleasure, success
and failure, are eternal partners in the dance of life. C’s and A’s go unavoidably
together like tails and heads. Trying to escape from pain or failure is like
trying to run away from your feet. Perhaps now and then, my restive students
can stop worrying about the past and future and just open their eyes and ears
to the lesson of the day, be it about participles or a poem of Wordsworth. If
they can simply be what they are – sensitive young people with always
“vibrating” minds – they might be able to receive the blessings of English
class, as modest and diverse as those blessings might be. They might see that
even failure has a flame of insight flickering inside it.
* * * * *
MORE LIKE A VOYAGE
THAN A JOB
“I
wish I could have died when I was fifteen. It seemed so easy to give things up
then; it is so hard now.”
--
Maggie, in George Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss
Maggie
Tulliver is speaking here of far more important issues than the teaching of
English to teenagers, and yet something in what she says starts me thinking
about my work in the classroom. In a way, it is hard for me to “give things up” now, at my well-seasoned age of
68. When I was fifteen, I could give up one shirt style for another with hardly
a thought, but now I’m into my 40th year with button down oxfords.
As a teenager, I was an Elvis junkie one week and a Platters disciple the next,
but nowadays I’m approaching my golden anniversary as a faithful fan of Mozart
and Beethoven. Fortunately, however, the opposite seems to be true in my
teaching. In the last fifteen years, I have found it increasingly easy to
abandon old teaching methods. I’ve cast off lackluster, cumbersome classroom
techniques as easily as a ship’s crew tosses out ballast to make the vessel
lighter and faster. In a way, I am a totally new teacher. My students from the
‘70’s would not recognize this gentle, tech-savvy, quietly adventuresome
teacher. I say this not to brag, because I have no true idea whether I’m a
better teacher now than I was when I was ranting and gyrating in front of a
blackboard thirty years ago. I just know that, unlike Maggie, I can give up old
ways of teaching as effortlessly as I give up one bow tie pattern for another,
or one all-time favorite poem for a new one. I feel lucky to have reached a
point in life where I can do so. It makes teaching English more like a voyage
of exploration than an occupation.
* * * * *
A DISINTERESTED TEACHER
As
a teacher, I hope I’m not uninterested or uninteresting, but I have striven over the years to be more
and more dis-interested. In fact,
it’s been one of my major goals as a teacher – to not be influenced by
considerations of personal advantage (one dictionary’s definition). One of the
great temptations for a teacher (at least this one) is to think of the work as
a personal mission, an opportunity to use special, individual talents to help
the students—a temptation I’ve been fighting for 40+ years. For me, the problem
with that personal approach to teaching is that I can easily end up thinking as
much about my success as a teacher as about the kids’ success as students. At
the end of a day, I can find myself admiring the feats of my teaching more than
the achievements of my students. No, I want my teaching to be as impersonal as
possible – as impersonal as a summer breeze that cools us and then passes by. I
want to be disinterested in the sense of not caring whether I made a brilliant
lesson plan, or whether the students might think I was a good teacher, or even
whether I was a better teacher today than yesterday. Notice all the ‘I’s in
that sentence – and that’s where the danger lies. Truly disinterested teachers
have lost the ‘I’ in their teaching. They are like the sunlight in the
classroom – invisible, in a sense, but universally supportive and reassuring.
They know that education is like the great air around us, and they are but
small winds and currents passing among the students for a few months and then
disappearing.
* * * * *
PRICING A POEM
I often talk with my students about the
difference between liking a work of literature and appreciating it, and I use
various analogies to try to make this clear. For instance, I don’t particularly
like the game of lacrosse, but by studying the rules and talking to
aficionados, I’m gaining an appreciation for it. Likewise, I wouldn’t choose to
spend an afternoon watching skateboarders perform, but, by occasionally
listening as students discuss the subtleties of the sport, I’m beginning to
appreciate its complexities and nuances. Actually, the word “appreciate” has a
monetary connection, as in “the house appreciated in value”, and I often
discuss that aspect of the word with the students. In a way, their job as
serious readers is to assess the value
of a poem or story, and then, you might say, set a price on it. If they owned a
skateboard store, they might not especially like a certain board, but they
would surely try to understand its value in order to decide on a price and do
appropriate advertising—and they’re involved in an oddly similar process in my
English class. Whether my students like a Mary Oliver poem or not is beside the
point; what counts is whether they appreciate its value as a work of art. What
counts is not whether they like the sonnet composed on Westminster Bridge (most
teenagers are not huge Wordsworth fans), but whether they can understand why
it’s been so highly prized by so many for so long. I’ll take “I understand the
worth of this poem” over “I like it” any day.
* * * * *
HAVING A SLOW READER
FOR A TEACHER
This
morning I fell in behind a very slow driver on my way to school, and within
seconds I was fuming, much the way my students probably seethe when I make them
read – or study – a book like To Kill a Mockingbird little by little,
paragraph-by-paragraph, sometimes sentence-by-sentence. This morning, as I
dilly-dallied behind this unhurried driver, I impatiently wanted to get on with
the business of the day, and my students, I feel sure, would like to get on
with the plot of Lee’s novel as quickly as possible and then dash on to the
next book. I wanted to get to school quickly so I could speedily get to my next
goal, and then the next, and on and on, and I fear the students think of
reading in the same way. They read a book to get to the end, and then they
start another book to get to its end, and on and on. Things are very different
in my English class, and I’m surprised I didn’t make the connection this
morning. This languid driver ahead of me was like old Mr. Salsich, the
infamously slow reader. The driver made me slow way down so I had nothing
better to do than admire the unblemished morning landscape, and I make my
students slow down as they travel through the pages of Lee’s beautiful novel.
Sometimes we even come to a momentary standstill among some splendid sentences,
perhaps even park by the side of a paragraph for a full period. “Yikes!” my
students must be thinking, just as I was thinking this morning as I meandered
along behind a leisurely, perfectly satisfied driver.
* * * * *
NON-JUDGMENTAL
READING
It
occurred to me the other day that I am always passing judgment as I read. It’s
as if I’m sitting on the “bench” in my courtroom handing down rulings – judging
either the value of what I’m reading, or the meaning of it. Similar to a
courtroom judge, I am totally focused on my judgments—preoccupied, you might
say, with evaluating the worth and significance of the words. It’s like a
full-time job when I’m reading – always judging, judging, judging. What I might
be missing because of this all-consuming fascination with passing judgment is
the important task of simply understanding what the author meant when she or he
wrote the words. This attempt at truly understanding an
author’s intent is not an act of judgment, but more an act of listening, of leaning forward and squinting our
brows and genuinely hearing what the author is trying to tell us. It’s an act,
in other words, of unselfishness – an attempt to look away from our own
preferences and beliefs and get inside an author’s intentions. In a time when
self-absorption seems almost unchecked in our society, it’s particularly
important that we readers learn to turn away from ourselves now and then and
pay careful attention to what great writers are actually saying. One might ask, “How can we know for sure
what an author actually meant?”, but that’s not too dissimilar from asking how
we can know what a speaker means, someone who’s talking to us at meeting, for
instance. There’s only one way, and that’s by attentively listening, both to
the speaker and to an author whom we’re reading. It’s all too easy to give up
trying to understand a speaker’s intent and just pass a quick judgment on what
his words mean to us, and it’s just
as easy to do the same thing in reading, especially if the reading is
challenging. We can toss in the towel, make a usable judgment, and say, “Oh
well, I’m not sure what the author meant, but here’s what I get out of
it.” What I hope to do, both in my
future reading and in my teaching of teenagers, is encourage more listening
than judging. “Listen carefully to what the author is actually telling you,”
might be my advice both to myself and my young literary scholars.
* * * * *
TEACHING WRITING WITH
MOZART
This
year I’m going to try teaching writing with the help of Mozart’s music. It’s
often struck me that classical composers must have worked in a somewhat similar
fashion to the way my young writers work on their formal essay assignments.
When I listen to a Mozart quartet, I hear the main theme developed in various
ways, just as I (hopefully) see a thesis expanded and explained in the
students’ essays. Mozart comes back, over and over, to the major idea of the
piece, and I insist that the students do the same on their essays. One of the
most intriguing similarities between classical music and essay writing is the
role creativity can play in the “development” part of the composition. Mozart’s
themes (opening melodies) are, to my untrained ear, quite plain and unadorned,
but he develops them with astonishing inventiveness and zest, something I hope
my students can do in their middle paragraphs. No matter how straightforward
their main point is, they can develop it with all the inventiveness and
originality at their disposal. Seventy-word sentences, ingenious metaphors,
long strings of gerunds, short sentences like shotguns – all can be used the
way Mozart used his development sections, to play the wildest tricks with the
theme and take it out to the most distant
boundaries. As the essay
comes to an end, the students can “recapitulate” the main theme, as music
professors might say. The young writers can smoothly bring us back to where
they started, with a reminder of the central point of the essay, just as Mozart
always brings us back to his opening melodies. In music, this recapitulation
often includes a “cadenza”, a virtuosic section in which the soloist can
display her or his finest artistic talents, and perhaps I can encourage my
students to do the same in an essay. As the paper draws to a close, why not let
the young writer loose to do some runs, riffs, fills, and trills?
* * * * *
LEAVES AND ADJECTIVES
The
other day, when I was told I would be missing two sections of English class
because of some special activities at school, I was initially upset, even a
little irate, but luckily I soon remembered that there are innumerable
activities that are at least as important as English class. It’s seems
preposterous to me that I can so easily fall into the trap of believing that
the subject matter of my curriculum is unrivaled in its importance. Where did I
get the notion that learning the rule for semicolons is more important than
hearing experts speak about the dangers of drugs? What gave me the idea that
studying some lines from As You Like It
is more important than attending a special musical performance? Where do I come
off passing judgments like this – handing down the edict that English class
exceeds in significance all other school activities? Actually, in the limitless
world of learning, my little lessons and exercises in English class may pale in
comparison to millions of other seemingly – to me – less-important pursuits. Who can say that an 8th
grade student might not learn far more from following old roads on a bicycle
than from discussing a poem by Maya Angelou? As blasphemous as this may sound,
an episode of “Family Guy” might expand a student’s thinking more than writing
an in-class essay on irony in To Kill a
Mockingbird. Even watching a leaf floating in the wind could create more
educational benefits for a student than sitting through a lesson on using
adjective and adverbs to make contrasts. I simply need to get off my high horse
and open my eyes, because this world offers kids countless learning experiences
that rival, and sometimes outstrip, Mr. Salsich’s English class.
* * * * *
MY ENGLISH CLASS
GARDEN
I
have often enjoyed comparing my work as a teacher to that of a gardener. Both
of us are interested in helping things grow – the gardener her plants and I my
burgeoning students. Both of us take pleasure in walking among our charges,
admiring the expansion of leaves or minds, and both of us love the times when
we can stand apart and marvel at the final product – the unfolded flower
petals, the spreading-out minds of teenagers. What I find especially satisfying
about this metaphor is that neither the gardener nor I has any control over the
kind of final products our work will
produce. A zinnia seed will produce a zinnia, and the young people in my
classes will become exactly what they must, no matter how much I may think I’m
“guiding” them. All the gardener and I can do is prepare the environment,
supply the appropriate nutrients, pull the “weeds”, and then … step back and
patiently wait. A gardener uses manure to stimulate the growth, and I use my
daily lessons. I sometimes spread a few talks about sentence variety among the
students in the hope that full-bodied essays will sprout in a few days, and
occasionally I scatter advice about revision, hoping it will allow their
paragraphs to be healthy and handsome.
What I must remember is that silver queen corn seedlings will become
silver queen ears, and my students will become what they are individually
equipped to become. All I can do is water, weed, wait, and be amazed.
* * * * *
THE DEPTHS IN ROOM 2
“It
was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the wide water,—he face to
face with Maggie,—that the full meaning of what had happened rushed upon his
mind. It came with so overpowering a force,—it was such a new revelation to his
spirit, of the depths in life that had
lain beyond his vision, which he had fancied so keen and clear,—that he was
unable to ask a question.”
--
from The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot (my italics)
This
passage has nothing whatever to do with teaching English to teenagers, but
still, I do see a connection to my daily labors in the classroom. Suddenly, in
the midst of a tragic flood, Tom Tulliver sees “the depths of life that had
lain beyond his vision”, and I often wonder how deep and complex the life in my
classroom is, and how far beyond my vision it lies. Tom had always been sure he
knew the truth – what to do, how to do it, what to believe, how to live – and
similarly, I’ve always been confident that I know what my students need and how
it can best be provided to them. In the novel, out of the blue, Tom understands
how ignorant he has been and how much he has been missing, and there are times
in the classroom when something renders me silent, something that whispers of
profound developments and expansions within my students that I am utterly
unaware of. Like Tom, and perhaps most of us, I live on the surface of life,
where matters seem relatively unfussy and controllable. I plan lessons the way
an engineer designs a machine, telling myself it’s just a matter of putting the
right parts in the right place. I don’t actually believe this, but the way I
operate in the classroom would suggest that, like Tom, I think achieving
success is as easy as following a technician’s design. When he finds himself caught up in the
roaring waters of the flood, the awareness comes to Tom that success comes not
from adhering to designs, but from being totally open to what’s happening -- unlocked to all the greatness and
impenetrability of what’s right in front of him. I need to keep Tom’s epiphany
in mind as I work with my complex and incomprehensible teenage scholars. These
kids are more like boundless mazes than simple machines. I need to respectfully
admit that my vision is not nearly as “keen and clear” as I used to believe –
that the life in my little classroom is actually as deep and uncontainable as a
flood.
* * * * *
MELANCHOLY IN ROOM 2
“…
in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran
shrine…”
--Keats,
“Ode on Melancholy”
Last
week, when one of my students was beside herself because of the C+ she had
received on an essay (she’s usually an ‘A’ student), I thought of these lines
by Keats. This girl normally experiences nothing but success in English class;
she dwells “in the very temple of Delight” in my classroom. Laboring diligently
on each task and receiving high tributes for her work, she generally knows
little of melancholy, which is probably why she suffered so much when she saw
her grade. I wish I could help her see (but it will have to come with the
passage of time) that, as Keats suggested, failure is the other side of the
coin of success, and “sorrow” is on the back of the sign labeled “happiness”.
For this girl to think she can only experience triumph in her life is as naive
as thinking she can have only sunshine and no storms. The “sovran shrine” of
failure makes music as sweet as success does, but this youthful scholar can’t
hear it at this point in her life.
She (like me and most of us, I would guess) wants life to be all
happiness, but that’s like wanting only in-breaths with no out-breaths. Can’t
happen.
* * * * *
A TREE IN THE CENTER
OF ENGLISH CLASS
One
morning I happened to come across a photograph in a magazine of an enormous
beech tree standing in the middle of an otherwise empty field, and it reminded
me, oddly enough, of English class. I realized, as I stared at the picture,
that the only reason the tree looked so strong and beautiful was because of the
backdrop of the completely empty field.
It may sound obvious to some, but the thought then came to me that the
emptier the background, the more clearly visible an object is. Set against this
utterly vacant field, the great tree stood forth in all its magnificence.
Strange as it might seem, I wondered, as I put the magazine down, whether my
English class was empty enough. When
I set my daily lesson before the class, is it surrounded by something like an
empty field – a setting so plain, you might say, that the lesson displays
itself with all its clout (assuming it has some)? Are the students sometimes
drawn to my lesson because it seems to stand alone, like this morning’s tree in
its spacious and vacant field? I’m not sure where this train of thought is
heading, but one idea that occurs to me is that silence is a form of emptiness. Perhaps occasional periods of silence could be the field in
which my English lessons might locate themselves with a certain clarity and
even dignity. Perhaps surrounding and permeating a lesson with brief interludes
of silence might render the lessons more vivid, more memorable. I’ve often
thought, actually, that there is too much “noise” in my classes – not the noise
of disruption and inattention, but simply the noise of constant talking.
Surrounding a well-planned lesson with so much talk is like surrounding a
beautiful tree with a mishmash of brush and saplings. As valuable as the
constant talk in my classes may be, it leaves little room for the powerful
emptiness of silence. Maybe I should say to the students tomorrow, “We’re going
to have a minute of silence now before I begin the lesson on the use of
participles to enhance writing. Please try to enjoy the silence.” Who knows? Perhaps the tree of my
lesson might be a little easier to see.
* * * * *
POWER IN ROOM 2
I
sometimes mull over the idea of power in my classes – where it resides and
where it comes from. Of course, it’s easy to simply say that power resides with
me (because I’m the teacher) and that it comes from my experience as an adult –
but that’s just skimming the surface of the subject. Diving a little deeper, I could
say that, actually, as much power resides with the students as with me. After
all, the power associated with learning comes from thoughts, and who can say
that my thoughts are any more powerful than those of my students? I don’t think
anyone has yet discovered a way to measure the force of a thought, so it’s
possible that the slimmest, most delicate thought of a teenager could actually
be as powerful as the thought of a seasoned and sagacious teacher. Going deeper
still, is it possible that the power in a classroom actually comes from
somewhere outside the students and
me? Again, we can dismiss this question by saying that power obviously comes
from our thoughts—but where do our
thoughts come from? As a teacher, do I personally and individually
manufacture my own thoughts, or do I actually borrow pieces of ideas from
sources outside me and then merely allow them to come together in new ways? It
seems to me that the thoughts my students and I make use of in our classroom
come from sources that are spread across the vast distances of the world –
sources that are impossible to finally locate with any precision. Power in
English class, I guess, is like the wind: who can say where it begins or where
it ends?
* * * * *
WRITING AND JUGGLING
One
day, when I was messing around with VoiceThread, an online tool I’d been using
in class, I came upon a new way to use it, and I must say that it was a
somewhat rousing discovery. It sort of made my afternoon, you might say – this
find of a hitherto unknown and intriguing method of grading essays using video
and audio. I felt like the discovery would immediately help me be a better
teacher. It gave me an unexpected lift, sort of like getting a surprise check
in the mail or an appreciative note from a parent. Later, I began wondering
whether my students occasionally get that kind of lift in their English work.
When they’re working on an essay assignment, do they occasionally hit upon a
new way to construct a sentence, a beguiling device that might deliver their
ideas to the reader in a novel way?
Do they get a little lift when that happens? Do they feel, as I did
today, that they want to take a few skips and whistle and sing? Of course, I hope my lessons can
provide them with this kind of lift now and then -- with perhaps some
innovative techniques to liberate their writing a bit more. I often think of
myself as a juggling coach who shows his students new tricks to perform. Words
are far more magical than three balls, and I hope I can impart new ways to
juggle them in writing. In their essays, my students can choose from thousands
of words, and there are thousands of ways to spin, toss, twist, twirl, and
swirl them – and that’s where I come in. Hopefully I can show them a few tricks
that will give them a lift, maybe make them want to take a break and prance
around their computer.
* * * * *
ALWAYS WONDERFUL
ENGLISH CLASS
When
someone asks me “How was class?”, I’m sometimes temped to say, “Wonderful.
They’re always wonderful” – but I’m sure I would be misunderstood. I definitely wouldn’t mean that all my
classes are thorough or exciting or successful, for many of them, I’m sure, are
the opposite—half-baked, mind-numbing, and hopeless. In 40+ years in the
classroom, I’m sure I’ve left behind a long trail of busted plans and broken
down lessons. No, when I say that all my classes are wonderful, I’m referring
to the word’s original meaning – “full of wonder”. I truly wonder at all of my classes. Even a class that seems smothered by
tedium and empty-headedness is worthy of wonder, as in, “What in the world am I
doing in this profession?”, or “How did the universe manage to set these kids
and me down in this little classroom today?” The truth is that my students – all of them – are deserving of wonder,
by the very fact that they breathe and think and smile and see. They often act
in ways that befuddle and frustrate me, but that only adds to my feeling of
astonishment, for the frustration they cause me comes from their out-and-out
inscrutability. I have absolutely no idea who or what they are. I am often lost
in amazement at their impenetrability, their mysteriousness. If I frequently look
bewildered after my classes, it’s not because a class flopped (thought it well
might have), but simply because I’m truly full of wonder, day after day. To
paraphrase Butch Cassidy, “Who are
these kids? Who am I? What are we doing here?”
* * * * *
THE CURIOUS ENGLISH
TEACHER
As
the many years of my teaching career have passed (44 and counting), I have
steadily become more curious about the peculiar work I’m called upon to do each
day. To me, this enterprise of teaching the vagaries of the English language to
teenagers has grown more bizarre each year. On most days, when I walk into my
classroom I feel like I’m entering a space ship bound for nameless
destinations. I basically fasten my seat belt, get my binoculars ready, and
hang on. Any Star Trek lovers will quickly realize that this is exactly what
makes teaching more and more exciting for me – the fundamentally weird and
startling nature of the work. I can’t wait to get to school each day just to
see what unexpected things will start happening as soon as the first class
commences. Like a scientist in his lab, I am intrigued by what occurs in my
classroom – the odd thoughts that arise in my students and me, the strange
strings of words that float out of our mouths, the out-of-the-blue expressions
that illumine our faces. The older I get, the more full of curiosity I get. Why
did I plan this particular lesson? Why did Annie’s words come out in just that
way? What dreams is Jason enjoying as he gazes out the window at a traveling
hawk?
* * * * *
GIVING IT ALL AWAY
More
and more, teaching seems to me to be all about giving – but I didn’t always
feel this way. For the first many years of my teaching career, I was more
interested in keeping than in giving.
I wanted to keep my reputation as a good teacher, keep control of the class,
keep the students on the straight path of my lesson, and keep my pride and
dignity. Because I was devoted to hanging on, holding on, saving, and
retaining, giving didn’t often enter into my thoughts. How can you hold on and give
away at the same time? Now – although I’m not sure how it happened – my
thinking has gradually reversed itself. Now it seems foolish to me to try to
keep anything back in the classroom, mostly because it doesn’t bring any
rewards. Holding back brings only feelings of stiffness, tightfistedness, and
smallness, and what I want is the opposite – openness and largeness. After four decades in the classroom,
I’m more or less through with holding back. I’m about done with the pride,
fear, and self-importance that caused me to hold back for all those years.
Before I call it quits, I’m interested in discovering just how big this thing
called teaching really is, and I can do that only by giving everything away in
each class. For some weird reason, the more I give away, the farther out the
boundaries of teaching seem to get, so I’m giving it all away in every class.
In Room 2, it’s a totally free yard sale, day after day.
* * * * *
ACCEPTING IT ALL
Yesterday
I wrote about being willing to “give it all away” in English class (let go,
stop worrying, take risks), but it’s also important that I be willing to accept it all. Countless odd and unforeseen events can occur in any class,
and I need to be open enough to welcome them. I don’t mean I must always like
them or encourage them – just receive and be at ease with them. Interestingly,
the etymology of the word “receive” – from the Latin for “take back” – helps me
to be friendlier to the various distractions and stoppages that happen in
class. After all, in my lifetime I’m sure I have created, in one form or
another, every kind of disturbance that might take place in my class. In my
school days and at faculty meetings, I’ve whispered, interrupted, blurted,
looked bored, and steered people away from the topic, so when these things
happen during my class, I can, in as sense, just welcome them back. Like
boomerangs, my questionable behaviors over the decades occasionally return to
me during English class, and I try to greet them like old, innocuous friends.
It helps me, in this regard, to sometimes think of myself as a river, and all
the weird, irregular episodes and incidents that come to pass during class are
merely streams, creeks, brooks, and rivulets that flow harmlessly toward me as
I conduct the class. A river doesn’t
resist, and neither should I. Again, it doesn’t mean I should like everything that occurs during
class, but at least, like an hospitable but persistent river, I can welcome
every side stream, somehow absorb it into the lesson, and just keep on flowing.
Rivers know how to turn everything into part of the movement toward the goal,
and, at the age of 68, I’m still learning that lesson.
* * * * *
EASY DOES IT
As
my years in the classroom have passed, I have made increasing use of the
Alcoholics Anonymous slogan “Easy Does It”. It’s been a revitalizing change for
me, because for the first half of my teaching career I might as well have worn
a button proclaiming that “Hard Does It”.
In those years I approached teaching somewhat like a soldier approaches
a skirmish. Every aspect of teaching seemed to involve an obstacle to be
overcome, a resistance to be neutralized, a hurdle to be vaulted. It was hard
work – “hard” meaning tense, hectic, and even traumatic. Now, thankfully, I
approach my work more like a sailor heading out to sea. When I’m teaching, I
often think of my long-gone father, the finest sailor I knew and the man who
taught me that “easy does it” on the high seas. Sailing was easy, he said,
because you simply let the wind do the work. He taught me not to fight the wind
– not to try to control it or manipulate it or resist it – but simply to work
with it. Fighting the wind was hard work; cooperating with it, combining forces
with it, was, according to Dad, as easy as breathing. These days I often think
of him as I’m steering my lesson through a 48-minute class period. Like the
capricious winds of the ocean, problems, distractions, and my inevitable
mistakes arise and whirl around me, but – remembering Captain Pete – I try to
relax and go easy instead of stiffen and fight. As student questions are asked
and comments are made, I turn the lesson a little this way or that to take
advantage of the energies and interests in the classroom. This doesn’t mean
that teaching is easy for me – just
that I take it easy as I’m teaching.
There are times when I must be firm with a student or a class, just as a sailor
must pull hard on the sails in a storm – but I try to be firm in a gentle
manner, strong in a kind way. Dad always said a good sailor is both forceful and
easy-going, both unyielding and laid-back – an approach that seems to work as
well in Room 2 as on Long Island Sound.
* * * * *
COME AS YOU ARE
If
we want people to feel relaxed at a gathering, we might say “come as you are”,
which is what I sometimes have to say to myself when I get to worrying about my
teaching. There are early mornings when I fret and fuss about an upcoming
class: Have I prepared enough? Am I ready for any contingency? Am I smart
enough to handle this topic? Will I be able to deal with blank and bored faces?
Basically, what I’m asking myself on those disquieting mornings is Am I good enough? Can I do this teaching
work? Luckily, I usually come fairly quickly to my senses, and often it’s
because I say to myself something like, “Ham, just come as you are. Just bring yourself
to the class, just as you are, just as the universe made you. The students
don’t want a sophisticated computer or a processed and purified technician or a
highly polished android for a teacher. They want a generous, whole-hearted,
spirited, inquisitive, flawed, and sometimes frightened person to teach them –
a person just like them. They want you with all your worries and joys and fears
and failures. Forget “dressing up” your lessons with a thousand finicky details.
Make a lesson that flies like a straight arrow to a wondrous target, and bring
it to class with courage and a little comedy. Walk tall, be bold, and laugh at
yourself. And just come as you are.”
* * * * *
BULGING AND BLAZING
AND BIG
This
morning I read Wallace Stevens’ poem, “The Latest Freed Man”, and I’m glad I
did, because I think it helped to create a rewarding situation in one of my
classes. In the poem, as I
interpret it, the man is “freed” because he has “escaped from the truth” and
the “doctrine” of things, and later in the day I rather miraculously escaped
from the “truths” and “doctrines” we teachers sometimes burden ourselves with.
Unfortunately, I occasionally come to class weighed down with pedagogical
theories, which makes my teaching, on those days, rather hesitant and halting
as I try to figure out how to make the theories work. Today, however, in a 5th period class (perhaps,
in part, because I had read the poem), I somehow slipped out from under that
burden, and, like the “freed man”, I saw “the moment’s sun” – the simple
amazingness of having a group of perceptive teenagers join me in a discussion
of a good short story. For a few moments, all the complexities and obscurities
of teaching – all the so-called truths and doctrines—blew away like clouds and
I was left with the straightforward strength of a few kids and an old man
talking from their hearts. In his poem, Stevens suggests that this strength
that I felt with my students is “the strength that is the strength of the sun”,
meaning, maybe, that it comes from someplace far deeper and vaster than my
little teacher brain. Theories, buzzwords, jargon, and the frantic machinery of
one teacher’s mind can’t create the kind of fresh and bona fide excitement my
students and I felt today. As the poem says, “it was everything being more
real.” In an odd way, I felt, for those few moments, like we were “[a]t the
centre of reality.” In Room 2, “[i]t was everything bulging and blazing and big
in itself.”
* * * * *
ELEGANCE AND
“EVANGELINE”
I
would like my classes to be like the poetry in Longfellow’s “Evangeline” –
elegant in a simple way. I’ve always enjoyed poetry that hides its beauty in
ease and unfussiness, and “Evangeline” does that. The lines are outwardly
unadorned—no rhyme, no artistic stunts, just a graceful story modestly told –
but somehow the poet conceals genuine beauty in each of the straightforward
lines. He cloaks elegance in the plainest and most natural covering, which is
what I would like to do in my classes. I wish each class could proceed with the
cleanness and neatness of this line: “White
as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves.” There’s
nothing tricky in that line, and I hope there’s nothing tricky in my teaching.
The poet speaks with openness and simplicity, and I want my teaching to work in
a similar way. Ironically, it takes hard work to create poetry that’s beautiful
in a simple way, and the same is true for teaching. The word “elegance” derives
from the Latin word meaning “to choose”, which suggests that both the poet and
the teacher, if they want to create true elegance, must carefully choose the
arrangements of their words and lessons. Elegance doesn’t often just happen; it
comes about because someone takes the time to thoughtfully select, mix, match,
arrange, and polish. Longfellow did that in the writing of “Evangeline”, and I
would like to do that in my 8th grade classes. Each class a plain
but handsome poem: that would be a goal to aim for.
* * * * *
LIGHTENING UP
I
have a friend who enjoys advising me to “lighten up”, and I appreciate his
reminders, because I tend to carry my responsibilities – including teaching –
as if they are dreadfully burdensome loads. The task of teaching teenagers how
to read deeply and write stylishly often makes me feel like I’m hauling a heavy
weight, and I usually drag the weight home with me each night, and sometimes
even lug it around my apartment on weekends. Strangely, I think I secretly
enjoy this feeling of being the overtaxed but devoted educational laborer. The
heavier my teaching responsibilities feel, the more seriously I take my
profession, and myself. Subconsciously, I probably think of myself as a
superman of some sort, a stalwart champion of young people, a valiant man who’s
willing to make great sacrifices for his students. It’s precisely this pompous,
humorless attitude that thoroughly exasperates my friend . “Lighten up,
Salsich!” he will say. He’ll then remind me that I’m merely one infinitesimal
breeze in the great wind of my students’ education, that what I can teach them
is like a tiny drop in the endless ocean of learning, that I’m every bit as
ignorant as they are, just in different ways, and that if I dropped dead today,
their academic lives would sail wonderfully on without me. And then he’ll offer
his most important advice: “Laugh at yourself, Salsich. Laugh at your
preposterous self-importance. Laugh especially when your teaching falls flat on
its face. Lighten up and laugh – and then maybe you’ll finally be on your way
to being a half-way decent teacher.”
* * * * *
TASTING STRAWBERRIES
When
my own sense of mediocrity seems to be pursuing me in my teaching work, I
sometimes remember an old tale about a woman who is being chased by demons. In
her attempts to escape, she arrives at a cliff. She spies a vine hanging over
the cliff, and climbs down on it. As she hangs there, hoping the demons above
won’t find her, she looks down and sees demons waiting below, and soon she
notices a mouse nibbling away at the vine she’s clinging to! Next, however, she
sees a bunch of strawberries growing near the vine. She smiles and reaches out
to taste the luscious berries. I enjoy this story partly because there are many
demons involved in teaching English to fidgety, befuddled, and brooding
teenagers, not the least of which is the worrisome feeling that I’m simply a
middling, run-of-the-mill teacher. That particular demon seems to enjoy
harassing me almost on a daily basis. However, I try to remember the
strawberries. No matter how bad things seem to get, no matter how barely so-so
my teaching seems to be, there are always some things to celebrate. There’s the
boy who smiled when I said his comment about a poem helped me to understand it
better. There’s the girl who spoke brilliantly in a discussion after weeks of a
dismal kind of silence. There’s the parent who simply said she was glad I was
her son’s teacher. When the devils of discouragement are on my trail and I’m
hanging over the cliff, I always look for the strawberries to reach out and
taste.
* * * * *
HARMONY IN ROOM 2
“…
an eye made quiet by the power
Of
harmony…”
--
Wordsworth, in “Tintern Abbey”
Reading
these lines again one morning, I thought of the harmony I occasionally feel
during English class. It doesn’t happen every day, of course, but there are
classes now and then when everything seems to flow as smoothly as the River Wye
in Wordsworth’s poem. In those classes, whatever we do and say seems to be
precisely what should be done and said. Notebooks open quietly, pencils move
effortlessly, thoughts are tossed among us like balloons, and the period comes
to an end as effortlessly as a river rounds a bend. Some of this harmony, I suppose, can be traced to good
planning, but a lot of it is as natural and unplanned as winds moving among trees.
Honestly, I have no real idea where this kind of concord comes from. Wordsworth
attributed it to “a motion and a spirit, that impels/All thinking things”, and
perhaps that spirit occasionally passes among my students and me as we carry on
our English work. Wherever it comes from, I feel lucky to be “surprised by joy”
like this now and then (to quote another Wordsworth poem). One moment I’m
waiting to start class, and the next moment I’m floating with my students on a
friendly and perfectly-balanced 48-minute English lesson.
* * * * *
GOOD GAMES
“But,
Lord! when you come to think of yourself, you know, and what a game you have
been up to ever since you was in your own cradle, and what a poor sort of a
chap you are, and how it’s always either Yesterday with you, or else To-morrow,
and never To- day, that’s where it is!”
--
Dickens, in “The Holly-Tree”
This
sentence, in one of Dickens Christmas stories, often starts me thinking about
the “Teaching English” game I play during the school year. Actually, it gets me
thinking about the many different games I play each day – the “Serious Writer”
game, the “Loving Father and Grandfather” game, and – most challenging of all –
the “Over-worked, Much-too-busy, Constantly-fearful-and-frustrated Human Being”
game. I take these games seriously and usually play them with desire and zeal,
but thankfully, I’ve gradually come to realize that they are, in fact, just
games. I don’t mean they aren’t serious, important, and sometimes life-changing
games – just that they are still only games. Like chess, I enjoy these daily
games, but, like chess, I know that if I lose at the “Loving Grandfather” game
today, the earth will keep spinning, winds will keep sweeping across
mountaintops, and tomorrow will bring another chance to play the delightful
game. Trouble is, I sometimes
forget that “Teaching English” is only a game. I often lose myself in the
supposed seriousness of it all – the feeling that I am engaged in a colossal
and historic task that could transform forever the lives of my students. I
frequently forget that, while I’m fretting over the failure of my class to
comprehend the various uses of gerunds, “in the Orion Nebula,/From swirling
gas, new stars are being born”.* In other words, in the biggest picture of all,
my work in Room 2 at my small countryside school is simply a fun-filled,
exasperating, festive, problematic, discouraging, and inspiring game. As the
narrator in Dickens’ story suggests, I spend entirely too much time regretting
past lessons and fussing over future ones, and not nearly enough time taking
pleasure in whatever lesson I happen to be teaching – or playing – at the
moment. As veteran game-players know, total focus on the game is the first
prerequisite. If I’m teaching about irony in Macbeth, that should be as
gripping and exciting a game as Monopoly – but still just a game. When both
games are over and the players, hopefully, have had a good laugh, the sun will
keep setting and rising, as always.
*
from the poem, “Toward the Winter Solstice”, by Timothy Steele
* * * * *
A SIMPLE-MINDED
TEACHER
For
some reason, I woke up one Christmas morning with the word “simple” on my mind.
Perhaps it was the utter simplicity of the small crèche scene on my coffee
table – just a few plain wooden figures looking down at a tiny shape lying on
some blades of grass I pulled from the lawn yesterday. Perhaps it was the
desire to find a little reassuring simplicity in the midst of some recent
disarray within my family. Or perhaps it was the unadorned grayness of the winter
sky. Whatever the reason, the idea of simplicity seemed to shine softly for me
on this special morning when so many people celebrate the renewal of plain
old-fashioned kindness. I’m not sure why, but, as I was fixing the coffee, I
started thinking about the old word “simple-minded”, which used to be employed
to refer disparagingly to mentally handicapped people. It occurred to me that
perhaps there’s a positive side to being simple-minded—that perhaps, in fact,
it’s a quality I’m gradually and thankfully approaching in my teaching. Perhaps
a simple-minded teacher is one who fully understands his overwhelming ignorance
when it comes to the complexities of teaching other human beings, and who is
willing to accept this handicap. A simple-minded teacher might be a humble
teacher, one who realizes that he is an ordinary person attempting to do
extraordinary work. A
simple-minded teacher might be a completely unpretentious and unaffected
teacher, because he realizes that pretending to understand the intricacies
involved in the rocket-science called teaching is a dead-end street. The simple-minded teacher, perhaps, has
taken off the mask of smugness and self-assurance, and stands before his class
as a mere mortal – a mystified, anxious, but always inquiring human being. As I
sipped my coffee and looked at the roughly carved wooden baby lying on the
coffee table on this Christmas morning, being simple-minded seemed to me to be
a stroke of good fortune.
* * * * *
TUNING UP MY CLASSES
Recently,
after hearing a friend talk about tuning his piano, it occurred to me that I
need to keep my English classes well-tuned. As I understand it, tuning an
instrument involves adjusting its tones to a fixed reference (for instance, A =
440 Hz) so the instrument is able to play pleasing melodies and harmonies. If
an instrument is “out of tune”, the reference point has been lost and the
instrument produces only jarring sounds, as though each tone is isolated in its
own universe of sound, with no melodious relationship with the other tones. As
I wrote that last sentence, I thought of the many classes I’ve taught where the
only melodies were those of dissonance and puzzlement – classes in which the
students and I seemed utterly out of tune with each other. It was as if an
orchestra had assembled but each musician proceeded to play, on untuned
instruments, whatever notes came to mind.
These were classes that left me, and surely the students, as weary as if
we had listened to confused and incomprehensible music for 48 minutes. To avoid
this in the future, the students and I simply need to tune our minds at the
start of each class. Our fixed reference will vary from day to day, but it’s
important that a moment or two be taken to align our interests and goals – to
get us attuned to each other. As the
teacher, I probably should be more like a concertmaster than a conductor. At
the beginning of a class, similar to a first violinist, I must somehow let the
students know what the fixed tone for the class will be, and then join the
students in performing some sweet and surprising English class music.
* * * * *
THE POWER OF THE
UNKNOWN
A
popular maxim tells us that knowledge is power, but as a teacher, I must always
remember that lack of knowledge is just
as powerful. The vast and hidden unknown is a mighty, and often
unrecognized, force in any classroom. I sometimes picture my students and I
wandering on the surface of a planet called “English”, while the incalculable
energies of the unknown are simmering at the center of the planet like so much
magma. We are usually unaware of the underground, shadowy, nameless strengths
of what we are studying, but they are always there, churning away beneath us.
When my students and I are studying a poem, the best we can usually do is
wander among the lines, noticing an understandable truth here and there, but
only rarely do we catch the rumblings of the unexplained, out-of-sight truths
under the words. Now and them,
fortunately for us, something like an eruption happens, sending an
extraordinary insight shooting up in our midst, and then we are able to
appreciate, again, how powerful are the forces of all that we don’t know. What
I find strangest of all is that, by some uncanny magic, the more we know about
a work of literature, the more we seem to not know. As our understanding of a
short story grows, so does out ignorance of it. Each time we read a poem, a
brighter light shines on the words, but, strangely, the darkness beneath the
poem grows darker, more potent, … and more beautiful. This is the power of the
great unknown at work, and as a teacher, I’m grateful for it. After all, the
more we don’t know, the more exploratory and adventurous English class becomes.
* * * * *
MOMENTOUS AND
UNREMARKABLE
More
and more, I realize that the work I’m involved in as an English teacher is both
momentous and unremarkable, both special and insignificant. When I’m teaching
my teenage scholars, I sometimes feel like an engineer carefully designing and
constructing rocket ships, and other times like a custodian who’s simply trying
to keep things orderly and neat so the students can do their required English
tasks. I sometimes feel very special, and sometimes utterly ordinary – no more
special than the anonymous people who somehow send electricity to our school
each day. I’m honored to be a teacher, and yet also humbled to realize that I’m
just one of the zillions of forces that educate my students each day. When I find myself sitting on my high
horse and applauding myself for belonging to such an important profession, I
try to remind myself that, in fact, I’m merely an infitesimal grain of topsoil
in the rich loam that instructs the students in the ways of the universe. Each
day, they learn about life from every person they meet, sentence they read,
sight they see, thought they think, show they watch, song they listen to – and
among these literally countless influences is Mr. Salsich’s modest 48-minute
English class. My students are
gradually and inevitably unfolding as promising young adults, thanks, in very
small part, to the tiny grain of soil called “9th grade English
class”. I don’t mean to disparage my work as a teacher, for it is just as
important as any other work the universe does to prepare young people for
adulthood – but no more important. An
essay by N. Scott Momaday, studied in English class, might shine a helpful
light on a teenager’s inner life, but so might an episode of “Family Guy”, or a
song by Five for Fighting, or the fleeting remark of a friend. My students learn to write formal
paragraphs in my class, but is the writing any stronger or more significant
than the tumultuous and impassioned Facebook messages they shoot back and forth
to each other? Education happens at the hands of this endless universe, and I’m
thrilled to be a part of it all – but
just a part, and a microscopic one at that.
* * * * *
NOISELESS PAIN,
SUPPRESSED ANGUISH
“There is much pain that is quite noiseless; and vibrations
that make human agonies are often a mere whisper in the roar of hurrying
existence. There are glances of hatred that stab and raise no cry of murder;
robberies that leave man or woman for ever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept
secret by the sufferer - committed to no sound except that of low moans in the
night, seen in no writing except that made on the face by the slow months of
suppressed anguish and early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has
marred a life has been breathed into no human ear.”
--George
Eliot, in Felix Holt, The Radical
I’m
an English teacher, not a therapist, but when I read this passage, I can’t help
but think of some of my students. In my classes, we sometimes have what Eliot
calls a “hurrying existence” as we try to cover as much material as possible,
but I know full well that there are always a few students in the class who are
“suffer[ing] pain that is quite noiseless” as we go about pursuing our English
goals. Unfortunately, the age of fourteen is not too young to experience
crushing sorrow, and many children carry their sorrow into class like a wearisome
weight. While the rest of us are dispassionately studying sentence variety in a
short story, these students stay silent under the burden of their grief. I
think of one girl in my class who has no friends, rarely smiles, and walks
stooped over as if carrying an unspeakable load. I know, from talking with
school counselors, that she is faced with daily instability and furor at home,
and I can see the effects of it in her cheerless eyes. No matter what we happen
to be doing in class, including laughing at a riotous scene in a story, she
sits among us like a lost and passionless soul. Of course, my contract calls
for me to teach English, not give guidance to forlorn teenagers, but
unfortunately I’ve never learned how to separate the two. I’m not good at forgetting
mournful faces as soon as a class ends. I can be enjoying a glass of Merlot in
the evening, when the somber eyes of a student who has no idea where she will
be staying each night will rise before me – a girl who is living with
“suppressed anguish” every day of her life. I only wish I could help her as
easily as I can point out sentence variety in a story.
* * * * *
STRIVING OR GOING ALL
OUT?
At
a faculty meeting recently, one of our teachers suggested that a certain
student was not “striving” to do his best, and I immediately thought, “Good for
him”. It seems to me there’s already too much striving in the world – too much
pushing, shoving, struggling, campaigning, grappling, wrestling, scuffling, to
say nothing of warring. I don’t need to encourage my teenage students to strive
in English class, because the world already forces them up that rugged
hill. The verb “strive”, to me,
smacks too much of the “blinders on, eyes straight ahead, get out of my way or
I’ll crush you” kind of determination.
When the teacher said the boy was not striving, I pictured the lad
simply slowing his engine a bit and perhaps enjoying his young life more than some
of his grade-obsessed classmates.
He may not be striving, but maybe he’s going all out, a phrase that looks at ambition from a different
angle. When we go all out in an endeavor, we give everything we have to it—and
the word “give” is significant. Going all out requires opening up and giving
every bit of ourselves to our actions. When we’re striving, we’re not so much
giving as pushing and shoving, but when we’re going all out, all of ourselves
is out in the world, mingling and mixing with life in the hopes of making
something new. Going all out can be done in a stress-free and spirited way,
whereas striving is usually done with crumpled brows and grinding teeth. You
might say I’m playing with semantics here, but still, I’d rather see my
students smiling as they lighten up and go all out on an essay, than see them
grow old at 14 while striving to beat an assignment into submission.
UNAVOIDABLE
CREATIVITY
As
a teacher, I have often heard “creativity” spoken of as though it’s a quality
in short supply – an attribute that some students are fortunate to have and
others will never have – but I find this notion increasingly puzzling. It seems
clear to me that all of my students are constantly being creative during
English class, simply because their minds
are always manufacturing thoughts. For 48 minutes, thoughts are steadily
arising in their minds, which add up to about 2,880 newborn, novel ideas per
student. I may wish the ideas were more in tune with my lesson plans, but, in
tune or not, the ideas are there, sprouting by the thousands in each class. I
try to keep that in mind as I’m teaching. I sometimes visualize the creativity
occurring in the students’ minds – the thoughts bursting like silent bombs,
shooting from mental pistols, pushing out like leaves, soaring aloft by the
hundreds like colorful kites. The truth is that my students – all of them –
can’t avoid being creative. The ideas that spring up nonstop in their brains
during class may not fit my private definition of “creative”, and may sail
miles away from my lesson and be heavy, occasionally, with sorrow or world-weariness,
but my students – all of them – are truly as creative as constant sunrises or
storms.
* * * * *
CHICKEN OR EGG,
TEACHER OR LEARNING?
We
usually assume good teaching comes first, then good learning, but who knows –
perhaps it’s the other way around. Education is such a give-and-take,
take-and-give process that it might be virtually impossible to determine where
it starts and ends. In fact, there may be no starts and endings at all, but
just a never-ending spiral of learning involving the students and teacher in a
single seamless process. During my long career I’ve often wondered about this
“chicken or egg” question, especially during those countless classes when I’ve
been astounded by something my students have taught me. I make careful lesson
plans each day, but, unaccountably, the students often manage to teach me
lessons with no help from plans, preparation, or teacher training. I long ago
lost track of the number of times my students unfolded the meaning of a
novelist’s paragraph for me, or opened my eyes to the significance of a line in
a poem, or brought me around to the main point of an author’s essay. I’m the trained teacher, so I certainly
hope I cause some learning to happen, but clearly a significant amount is
caused by the students. A lot, too, is caused simply by the fact that I make
mistakes in each class, and every one of them is a fine teacher. Each of my
slip-ups is a professor who glares at me and says I can do it much better. I bow, give it thought, and try to
learn, thankful to have useful mistakes and instructive students to keep the
education going.
* * * * *
SODIUM, CHLORINE, AND
MY STUDENTS’ THOUGHTS
A
science teacher was telling me today about the strange behavior of sodium and
chlorine, and I couldn’t help but compare it to the behaviors that might be
occurring right under my nose in English class. Sodium, he said, is a metal
that causes a violent reaction when mixed with water, and chlorine, by itself,
is a highly toxic poison. However, when these two elements are combined in the
right proportions, an entirely new substance is created, called salt. From two
uniquely different and wildly reactive substances comes the soft white stuff
that enhances our meals each day.
This, my friend said, is no mere shuffling around of ingredients, but
instead is total transformation --
the kind of operation magicians would marvel at. Strange as it might sound, I
wonder if a similar kind of miraculous transformation might happen now and then
in my classroom, and in all classrooms. When we’re discussing a novel, does a
“sodium” thought inside a student’s head sometimes mix with a “chlorine”
thought and produce a totally new thought? Does an “oxygen” idea occasionally
meet some “hydrogen” ideas and produce, in a mysterious way, an idea that never
existed before for that student, or maybe for any student? I guess this kind of fundamental transformation is
what we all hope will happen in our classes – the kind of brand new thinking
that can actually remake a portion of a student’s life. As my scientist friend
made clear, this type of transformation happens everywhere in nature,
constantly, even in every cell in our bodies. Moment by moment, utterly new
substances are born from other substances, and perhaps it happens in English
class now and then. Perhaps thoughts that might explode or poison on their own
occasionally mingle in my students’ minds to create unforeseen, out-of-the-blue
ideas that can be used to further enrich their burgeoning lives.
* * * * *
TEENAGERS AND
SHIFTING ICE
Ever
since graduate school, I have known that being certain about goals is a
necessity for good teaching, but, oddly enough, I also know that welcoming uncertainty has its benefits. This
realization has come upon me slowly over the years, mostly because the immense
uncertainty of all of life has become clearer. Nothing is certain, so
how can I expect to be certain about outcomes of each English class? I have
absolutely no idea what will happen in the very next moment, so thinking I can
be sure about what will happen step-by-step in class is little more than
make-believe. To me, teaching often seems similar to crossing a frozen river
during the spring break-up. It’s important to be well-prepared for each class
(and a detailed lesson plan is part of that), just as a person traversing
spring ice would want to be properly geared-up and organized for the adventure
– but both the teacher and the ice-traveler must realize that anything could happen at any moment.
Pack-ice cracks and shifts, and so do most lesson plans; on the ice, open water
can suddenly appear beneath your feet, and suddenly, in the middle of English class,
a new path for the lesson can open up. Both the teacher and the traveler must
be prepared but also flexible – intense and focused, but also foot-loose and
freewheeling. You can’t walk on
shifting ice floes with an unbending mind-set, and you can’t teach teenagers if
you’re overly anxious to reach precise goals. Walking on spring ice is a haphazard undertaking, and so is
teaching.
* * * * *
EVERYTHING’S ALWAYS
UNDER CONTROL
When
I awoke this morning, it suddenly occurred to me that, for the past seven
hours, I had absolutely no control over anything that happened in my life –
and, oddly enough, I immediately thought about my work as an English
teacher. Control is a huge concern
in the lives of most teachers. For many of us, a top priority is to feel that
we are in control of our classes – that we can organize and manage our lessons
and our students so learning takes place. We like having our fingers on the
pulse of every part of the learning process, pulling strings and maneuvering in
order to keep the educational process going. We like to think that if we weren’t at the helm guiding and
steering the students toward knowledge, the good ship of learning, at least in
our classroom, would definitely drift off course. I like to be in control as
much as any of us– but then, what about last night? What about the fact that,
while my controlling and manipulating brain was fast asleep for seven hours, an
astonishing number of events happened to my life with perfect efficiency? While
I was far away from the helm of the ship called “Hamilton”, the ship
nonetheless ran with utter perfection – heart pumping accurately, blood
coursing along precisely the way it should, lungs filling and deflating without
a single mistake, and a trillion cells doing a trillion tasks flawlessly. Not
only that, a zillion other things in the universe occurred quite perfectly in
those seven hours with absolutely no help
from me. Everything from the bending of grass blades in a breeze to the
circling of far-off stars happened while Mr. Salsich, the English teacher, was
not in control. The universe danced along quite nicely without any dispensing
or administering from me. What does all this mean? Does it mean I should
surrender control of my classes and allow them to “do their own thing”? Of
course not. On one level, I know it’s imperative that I guide and direct my
students, and I take that responsibility seriously. However, from now on I’ll
try to keep last night’s sleep-filled but well-organized hours in mind as I go
about controlling my students. I’ll try to put it all in perspective, to
remember that while I’m at the helm of the wee ship called “9th
Grade English”, countless other helms (including those inside my body and
outside our galaxy) are under the prudent control of nameless, mysterious, and
infinitely wise captains.
* * * * *
CHORUS AND ENGLISH
I often help with
crowd control in our school’s chorus class (90 students and one teacher), and
this morning I noticed some interesting resemblances between what happens there
and what happens during discussions in my English classes. The teacher was teaching
the group about the different parts they would be singing in an upcoming
program – bass, alto, tenor, soprano – and, as she talked and then led them in
rehearsal, I thought about the different parts my students “sing” when we’re
holding a discussion. In the chorus, each voice blends its own special range of
sounds into the group, and in my class the students try to mingle their unique
personalities and ranges of ideas into the discussion. One student’s qualities
and ways of thinking are as different from another’s as a bass is from a
soprano, and yet both the ideas and voices manage to mix together in
unexpectedly agreeable ways. Somehow, all the voices in the teenage chorus –
high and low, silvery and squeaky, unspoiled and coarse – make harmonies and tunes
together, and somehow a similar surprise occurs, at least occasionally, in
English class. Of course, this takes some work – sometimes prodigious work – on the part of the teacher. Our music teacher
painstakingly trains her singers to sing their various melodies while at the
same time staying aware of the overall movement of the song, and I suppose you
could say I train my students to blend their talents together in a discussion.
The music teacher wants to take full advantage of each singer’s unique voice
and range, and yet still produce a single harmonious musical piece, and,
likewise, I want my students to bring their inimitable personalities to the
discussion, but to also work together to create a conversation that flows in a
rich and mellow way. Watching the chorus class this morning, it occurred to me
that training students to take part in an intelligent and graceful discussion
might be every bit as tricky as training them to sing in harmony. Perhaps I
need to “rehearse” discussion techniques with the students. Perhaps I need to
be more specific in showing them, for instance, how a skeptical student’s
comment can be blended in smoothly with a classmate’s optimistic ideas, or how
some “bass” ideas can finally mix in a nimble way with a few “soprano” insights
and produce a sweet finale to a discussion.
* * * * *
AFFINITIES IN ENGLISH
CLASS
Messing
around in a dictionary the other day, I came upon the word “affinity”, and
began mulling over its connection to my English classes. One definition of the
word is “a
similarity of characteristics suggesting a relationship”, and as I thought
about my classes, a crowd of similarities and relationships came to mind. It
occurred to me, for instance, that all of us – my students and I – are similar
in a very basic way: our bodies interact with the same air. As we’re discussing
a short story or learning about using dependent clauses, the trillions of cells
in our bodies are being refreshed by the zillion oxygen atoms pulsating in my
classroom, and “used” oxygen atoms in the form of carbon dioxide are flowing by
the zillions out of all of us and back into the air of the classroom. While I’m
explaining the homework assignment, this ocean-like process of
oxygen-give-and-take is surging among and through us, teacher and kids alike.
In this sense, we all have a fundamental affinity with each other – a
relationship as close as breezes in a great wind. And this is just the start. There are, I realized, countless
other affinities among all of us in English class. For instance, all the words
we speak in the classroom are words we’ve probably heard innumerable times in
innumerable contexts, and thus they resonate and reverberate inside each of us.
It’s as if we’re all joined in an endless web of words, and each spoken word strikes
the web and sends ripples ceaselessly out to the frontiers – or as if we are a
fleet of small boats, and far beneath us the words we speak flow in unseen
currents, carrying us along in ways beyond our understanding. A final affinity
is simply the complex and inscrutable relationship among the works of
literature we study. Each work we read could flash endless connections—if only
we could see all of them—to every other work. These types of affinities actually seem infinite in number.
A poem could relate to any another poem, to any tree swaying outside in a wind,
to a student’s grandmother’s illness, to single word on a street sign, to the
sweep of stars overhead. In great literature, affinities are everywhere,
because great literature (and who knows, maybe English class) stretches out to
everywhere – opens all doors, breaks all boundaries, touches dust and stars.
* * * * *
THE ENGLISH
FACILITATOR
I
sometimes think my main responsibility as a teacher is not so much to help
students learn as to make sure the learning they’re already involved in carries
on. It occurs to me that I’m not so much a teacher as a facilitator – someone who makes it as easy (L. facilis) as possible for the students to continue to flow with the
process of learning, a process as pervasive and enduring as the weather of the
earth. When the students walk into my classroom each day, they are already
involved with this process. They are thinking or feeling deeply about some
issue, be it a serious personal predicament or simply the look of the light
snow falling on the ski trails last weekend. Their minds and hearts are working hard, as usual, and hard
work means learning – not the academic kind of learning we’re caught up in as
teachers, but the learning that happens constantly because they, like all of
us, are continuously thinking or imagining or supposing or pondering or
estimating or presuming or wondering. In other words, they are being educated
at all times, including the moment they enter my room for English class. If I
can keep that in mind, if I can remember that my students, in a sense, are
working through their own “lesson plans” as they take their seats in my room,
then perhaps my lesson won’t be a complete disruption of their own personal
education (as it often is, I’m afraid), but rather a reasonable and fairly
enjoyable trip down a branch of the great river of learning they’re always
traveling.
* * * * *
LEBRON JAMES AND
STRUCTURED ESSAYS
I
require my students to write many highly structured essays, and I often remind
them that it’s a LeBron James-like endeavor. James, after all, is required to work within an extremely
structured set of guidelines. There are dozens of clear-cut rules he must abide
by as he goes about producing his astounding feats in a basketball game, to say
nothing of the relatively small dimensions of the court upon which he must
perform. He also has a coach and teammates who expect him to follow a game plan
that, at his level of play, is no doubt detailed and convoluted. It might seem
to be a miracle that he is able to be so creative within all this structure,
but I see it differently: his creativity, I believe, is enhanced by the structure. Imagine if he had to follow no
rules, no game plan, and there were no boundaries to the court. Imagine if he
could do whatever he pleased with the ball, including double-dribbling, running
while carrying the ball, and even dashing up into the stands with the ball, or
outside the building and down the street. It sounds ridiculous, mostly because
we know he wouldn’t be fun to watch
anymore. We know, when we think about it, that it’s precisely the rules and
boundaries that make his creativity so noteworthy. Working within the rigid
structure of the game, LeBron James is a maker of marvels because of the structure. I sometimes remind my students of this when
I give an essay assignment; I tell them again that all the rules and guidelines
I set up for their essay assignments are actually designed to help them set
their ingenuity free. I tell them I
would be doing them a disservice if I simply said, “Write whatever you want in
whatever way you want to”, because who is impressed by a writer – or basketball
player – who isn’t pushing against or bouncing off or stretching or
manipulating or dancing with (as James does) a structure and a set of rules? To
put it another way, who is impressed by a writer or athlete (or any type of
artist, for that matter) who faces no challenges or obstacles? Where is the creativity in that? My final reminder to the students is
that perhaps the most creative writer in our language, Shakespeare, wrote all
his plays and poems within very strict guidelines, including the fairly
inflexible formula of iambic pentameter.
He discovered that the most exciting creativity lies hidden inside
structures and rules, and so, I think, has LeBron James – and so, I hope, will
my students.
* * * * *
ENJOYING THE
WATERHOLES
Yesterday
there were, as usual, some brief periods during my classes when some students
had nothing to do. This happens, for instance, when students are copying
information from the board and the faster writers have perhaps thirty seconds
to kill as they wait for classmates to finish. Generally these might be
considered wasted moments to be avoided, but I like to think of them as
refreshing pauses to be enjoyed. Most of my students rush around in their young
lives in a frantic fashion, doing ten tasks and then ten more and then ten
more. I disagree with teachers who say that students live relatively
lighthearted lives; what I see in my school could best be described as a madcap
tumult of activity: class after class after class with a two-minute break, then
sports, then homework, homework, homework. Yes, the young people do find time
to twitter, text, email, and otherwise entertain themselves, but, even so, they
are fairly caught up in our modern maelstrom of non-stop doing. I doubt if they
have many thirty-second periods in their days when they do absolutely nothing,
so I consider it their good fortune that they occasionally come upon these small
waterholes of silence and serenity in English class. When a student has finished writing down an assignment, or
when a break occurs between activities, perhaps there’s a moment or two when
nothing’s happening for a few students save the faithful rising and falling of
their lungs. Surely this is a gift to be cherished. This is not time to kill
but to savor, like a little waterhole in the students’ anxious and hasty lives.
* * * * *
A TIME TO START AND A
TIME TO STOP
The
other day, a fine teacher at my school made a simple but instructive suggestion
concerning calming student restlessness during class: give a definite stopping
time for each activity. As I thought about her suggestion later, it occurred to
me that some of my students’ restiveness might stem from their sense that
English class has no definable boundary lines – that it’s a sort of a formless
ocean of grammar rules and essay topics and novels and poems, a 48-minute
period where nothing ever really starts or ends, but activities sort of swirl
around in an incessant and fairly directionless manner. I do try hard to present an orderly
lesson plan each day, but I wonder if my plans sometimes appear to my students
to be more like blurred overviews than precise, step-by-step diagrams. I wonder
if they feel lost in a haze of general English goings-on, rather than
clear-headed and fully alert on a marked path to a specific goal. My
colleague’s suggestion makes some sense. If I tell the students, for instance,
that we will discuss a certain poem for precisely 14 minutes, ending at 10:22,
at which time we will have a 2-minute summary of the discussion and a 2-minute
period for silent reflection and note-taking, perhaps this would help them feel
more oriented, more purposeful. If they knew, in other words, that there was a
specific moment when an activity would stop, they might possibly give
themselves more heartily to the activity. Of course, I have to remain flexible
in my work as a teacher, but flexibility can too easily dwindle away into mere
sluggishness and puzzlement, where an activity doesn’t really end but just sort
of drifts off into side streams and disappears (as often happens, I must say,
in our faculty meetings). Instead of allowing the discussion to be extended and
then possibly fade away among the worn-out students, a better way to employ
flexibility might be to say, at 10:22, “We clearly need more time to discuss
this poem. Let’s continue with our discussion tomorrow. Now let’s do our
2-minute summary, as scheduled.” Perhaps giving my fidgety students specific
stopping points would make school seem less like an endless ocean of perplexity
and disorder, and more like a series of informative journeys to precise
targets: e.g., 20 minutes to review the story, 14 minutes to practice using
appositives, 2 minutes to breathe deeply and daydream.
* * * * *
PROJECTING WITH A
PROJECT
Since
some of my students are currently engaged in a complicated long-term activity,
the kind we often call a
“project”, I’ve been pondering some various meanings of that word. It
derives from the Latin “to throw forward”, as in “seeds are projected from the
tree”, and lately I’ve been picturing my students doing just that – using this
project to hurl themselves out into the academic world, hoping someone
(including me) might catch sight of them speeding across the sky of learning
like so many blazing arrows.
Indeed, their gazes in class sometimes seem extra intense these days, as
if, inside themselves, they are speeding here and there across the literary
landscape, searching for exotic landmarks, perhaps some rare ironies or a
stretch of striking metaphors. Who
knows where they will eventually land when the project comes to a close, but I’m
sure they’re hoping it’s someplace soft, hospitable, and satisfying, where
they’ll be welcomed, conceivably, by a small crowd of appreciative supporters.
Perhaps the students are also interested in using this project to project an
image of themselves. Maybe they imagine a small instrument inside them that is
able to shine an image on the front screen of their appearance, and they’re
hoping my daunting long-term assignment will enable that image to be luminous
with wisdom and self-assurance.
Possibly they see themselves, when they finally receive their good grade
for the project, walking down the halls at school with the soft light of their
own talents flashing out from some secret projector inside them.
* * * * *
CONVERSING AND
DISCUSSING
Exploring
in the dictionary this morning, I discovered that both ballets and storms take
place in my English classes. The
word “conversation” derives from the Latin word for “turn with”, which is what
ballet dancers do together on stage and what my students and I do when we talk
with each other about literature. When we share ideas across the classroom, we
try to turn toward each other in earnest partnership, and we often turn with each other as we adjust our
thoughts and come to gracious agreements. It’s satisfying to think of our
conversations as a kind of dance – sometimes litigious and free-wheeling, to be
sure, but perhaps always stylish in a coarse and youthful way. Of course,
classroom conversations can also be called discussions, and the dictionary
tells me that these might be better compared to storms than dances. When I read
that the word “discuss” comes, to my surprise, from the Latin words for “shake
apart’ or “dashed to pieces”, I immediately thought of the many occasions when
ideas were flying around my classroom in the blustery weather of adolescent disagreements.
Usually the students have maintained a modicum of civility during these
tempestuous discussions, but still, a visitor walking into the room might
decide to take cover. When young, impassioned people discuss in a sincere and
liberated way, ideas will, in fact, be shaken apart, and a few cherished
thoughts might be dashed to pieces. It’s as far from a ballet as you can get,
but perhaps, in its way, just as beautiful.
* * * * *
REVISING AND
POLISHING AN INTERPRETATION
As
I was talking with a colleague yesterday about literature circles, he mentioned
that a small-group discussion can actually be a form of revision, not of
students’ writing but of their thinking – and I found it an intriguing notion.
He said when students engage in conversation about a book, they can actually
take part in a process very similar to amending and modifying a piece of
writing. Assuming they are open to
new ways of thinking about the book, their thoughts can alter in intricate and
subtle ways as the discussion proceeds. You might say they come to the
discussion with a ‘first draft” of interpretations, but by the end of the
discussion they are closer, perhaps, to a second and maybe more polished way of
looking at the book. I spend a lot of time revising my own writing (it’s
actually the most cheerful part of the process for me) and I require my
students to do the same, but I hadn’t considered the notion of “revising” our
thoughts about a book. If dusting off, rearranging, reshuffling, fiddling with,
and polishing a piece of writing seems to get me closer to creating something
like a modest work of art, perhaps participating in a book discussion can do
the same for my students and me. Perhaps, when the last discussion is finished,
we can each be proud that we have created a revised, refined, even somewhat
sophisticated, maybe even beautiful interpretation.
* * * * *
SIMPLICITY
I
realize more and more how important simplicity is to good teaching, but I also
realize that it’s not easy to be a simple teacher and run a simple classroom.
One of the trickiest skills I’ve had to learn, and am still learning, is how to
be completely straightforward, direct, and down-to-earth in my work with
students. It sounds odd to say that being simple is a “tricky” skill, but
that’s part of the irony – that simplicity is one of the most complex qualities
a teacher has to acquire. As the song reminds us, it’s a gift to be simple, but
it’s also a talent I have to consciously develop and refine. I can, for
instance, practice distilling my lesson plans down to the point where both the
goals and the procedures are utterly clear – no frills, trimmings, or
add-ons. I can also simplify what
I say in class: less shooting from the hip, more silent pauses, more thinking
before I speak, fewer words but more carefully laden. This in no way means my
teaching should be dull. Simplicity is not lifelessness. One of my favorite
definitions for “simple” is “humble and unpretentious”, qualities I admire in a
teacher – but they don’t imply dullness. A river, to me, is one of the simplest
marvels in nature, but it’s loaded with the opposite of dullness. It basically
does what rivers must do, simply flows where all rivers must flow, but does so
with indescribable liveliness and force. I guess I’d like to teach in a strong
but simple way, the way a river flows.
* * * * *
DISABILITIES, OR
DIFFERENT ABILITIES?
Over
the years, my school, like most, has gotten increasingly into cataloging the
various disabilities of the students, but, as much as I appreciate the work of
our learning specialists, I wish they would replace the term “disability” with
“different ability”. The prefix
“dis” is strictly a negation, implying, as one dictionary puts it, “the absence or opposite of something
positive”, and I hate to place that kind of label on a student. If a student,
for instance, learns very slowly, couldn’t we say she has a different way of learning, instead of
suggesting that some positive skill is missing in her? There are a thousand
roads to Mecca, and there are way more than a thousand ways a person can learn.
Who are we to suggest that certain ways of learning are more positive or
correct than others? Of course, some methods of learning lead to more “success”
in our highly standardized school programs, which is why it’s important for
specialists to help these different learners become skilled at new ways of
learning – ways that will enable them to more easily keep up with our fairly
uniform curriculums. I just don’t like the notion that there are only a few
constructive ways to learn, and that anyone who learns in other ways is somehow
deficient. There’s the negative prefix again: “de” suggests the absence of or
the opposite of, implying that our unusual, atypical, out-of-the-ordinary
learners are somehow incapacitated or (to use a no-no, politically incorrect
word) crippled. I prefer to see them as simply different. For me, it’s as
simple as this: most kids learn one way, these unique kids learn in other ways.
That doesn’t mean they have a disability. Who knows, by observing them
carefully instead of labeling them as disabled, we might begin to understand –
and maybe appreciate—their different, weird, even wonderful ways of learning.
* * * * *
DISABILITIES, OR
DIFFERENT ABILITIES? (Part 2)
I
heartily support the work our learning specialists do in helping
out-of-the-ordinary (sometimes called “disabled”) learners develop new skills
that will help them find success in our highly standardized system of
education. This doesn’t mean these unique learners should be ashamed of their
in-born ways of learning (one of these ways is called dyslexia, another is
known as ADHD), or that they should try to totally replace them (which is
probably impossible anyway.) On the contrary, they should accept the way they
naturally learn as a rare and useful gift they were born with. The fact that
these gifts are not generally recognized as such, but are more commonly thought
of as defects, deficiencies, weaknesses, or flaws, should not discourage these
unusual learners from accepting, and even celebrating, their extraordinary
(literally “outside of the ordinary”) learning styles. Lest that sound like a facetious
remark, it’s now widely known that an unusual percentage of people with
atypical learning styles (like dislexia, ADD, etc.) have exceptionally high
IQs. For some reason that science does not yet understand, one of the
endowments that often come with advanced intelligence is some type of odd and
uncommon way of learning, like ADHD. In fact, innumerable successful people
have had the distinction of having one of these learning dissimilarities, and
it may be that their success stemmed, in part, from the quirky and eccentric
way in which they learned. This, of course, is nothing new. Over the past 20
years, many articles and books have been published advocating the idea that
what we call disabilities should rightly be called gifts. Not surprisingly,
there is a large group on Facebook called “The Gift of Invisible Disability”,
on which I found this quote:
“I am only different
because I do not see, hear, focus, or connect the way you do - because I have a
different way of learning. Yes I am different but only because I have a gift
that you do not.”
The point is that conditions like dyslexia do not have to be thought of as weaknesses, disadvantages, or drawbacks, just as being 6’10” doesn’t. Dyslexia and tallness are just the way things are for some of us. Whether we decide it’s a disability or a gift is entirely up to us.
The point is that conditions like dyslexia do not have to be thought of as weaknesses, disadvantages, or drawbacks, just as being 6’10” doesn’t. Dyslexia and tallness are just the way things are for some of us. Whether we decide it’s a disability or a gift is entirely up to us.
* * * * *
DISABILITIES, OR
DIFFERENT ABILITIES (Part 3)
I’ve
written earlier that different learning abilities (sometimes called
“disabilities”) might be considered gifts rather than shortcomings, but I
didn’t mean to imply that no pain is coupled with those gifts. It seems to me
that sorrow and happiness are two sides of the same coin – that you can’t have
one without a fair share of the other – and so it seems natural that our gifts
will probably produce an equal amount of pleasure and pain. Of all the gifts I
have received, none has produced more pleasure than my body, but neither has
any gift brought me more pain. Over the long years of my life, my body has
often caused me severe pain, but it has also brought me indescribable pleasure,
which is why it remains the greatest of gifts. The fact that the pleasure
rotates fairly evenly with pain in no way diminishes the happy rewards I’ve
received from this gift of a human body. The same is true of the other amazing
gift, my mind. I have suffered greatly because of this magnificent instrument –
runaway thoughts, utter confusion, ever-revolving fears and worries, even
downright dejection and depression – but all of this misery has been
beautifully balanced by the numberless mental miracles all of us experience.
Does the suffering my mind has caused me mean that it’s not a magnificent gift
– that it’s a “disability”? The answer is obvious – and I wonder if we could
replace the word “mind” in the previous sentence with “dyslexia”, “ADHD”, or
any of the countless atypical, uncommon, out-of-the-ordinary learning abilities
science has discovered. Yes, ADHD does cause serious problems for people, but
so do their internal organs, their arms and legs, their loved ones, their
houses, their cars, and every other wonderful gift life has given them. Being
human – in any way, shape, form, or condition – is often a troublesome and
painful enterprise, but it is still an astonishing gift to be cherished. A
colleague of mine has recently learned this lesson. After living for years with
his own reckless temper tantrums, mood swings, inability to focus, and colossal
unpredictability, he was finally diagnosed this past summer with ADHD. I
vividly recall the day he told me about the diagnosis. He was, I think,
overjoyed that he now realized what had been going on inside him all those
years. He didn’t say he realized what was wrong
with him – just that he understood himself better. After giving the
diagnosis, the doctor asked him what his profession was, and when my friend
told him he was an 8th grade English teacher, the doctor smiled.
“I’ll bet you love your work,” the doctor said, “and I’ll bet you’re damn good
at it.” My friend was surprised, and said, “Yes, I do love teaching, and I
guess I am fairly good at it. How did you know?” The doctor told him he knew
simply because, in his wide experience, he’s learned that ADHD can be a genuine
asset to a teacher, especially one who works with teenagers. He told my friend that ADHD will
continue to cause all kinds of problems for him, but that he should always keep
in mind the strengths and talents – the gifts
– it also gives him. He said he
wouldn’t be nearly as good a teacher without it. I will end with a quote from a graduation speech by Edward
M. Hallowell, M.D., given at Eagle Hill (a school for students who learn in
unusual ways) in 2008:
“The
secret is that Eagle Hill is a covert operation, code name, Eagle Hill. The
true mission of Eagle Hill is to find and train the most interesting, talented,
gifted, unusual, tenacious, humorous, creative, hard-working, out-of-the-box
future innovators and leaders that can be found among kids of or near high
school age. Believing that it might cause these students to develop a swelled
head were they told of the true mission of the school, it was decided years ago
to disguise what happens here as the treatment of learning disabilities. This
would encourage you all to work all the harder, not that you need all that much
of such encouragement, and it would also help in fund-raising, as donors prefer
to give to people in need. But now, I can let you in on the secret. Having both
ADD and dyslexia myself, I am a member of the secret society you all belong to,
the society of the
magnificently-minded.”
* * * * *
QUIVERING PEALS
AND LONG HALLOOS IN ROOM 2
In
a famous passage from Wordsworth’s “The Prelude”, the poet writes of a boy who,
when “the earliest stars” began to shine, “blew mimic hootings to the silent
owls,/ That they might answer him”, and I must confess to often feeling like
that lonely lad when I’m teaching 9th graders. In an odd way, my
classroom often feels like friendless and rough backcountry, perhaps not too
different from Wordsworth’s “cliffs/ And islands of Winander”, and there I am,
day after day, sending out “hootings” to my students, hoping they will respond.
Like the boy in the poem, I try different kinds of signals to the kids – a
well-planned lesson, maybe a raised voice, perhaps stares, gimmicks, stunts,
devices, attention-grabbers, even dead silence – anything to get even a faint
response. It’s as if I’m high on a
cliff, alone, with the students somewhere out in the pathless forest, and my
voice goes forth like a solitary searcher: Is
anyone out there? There are
many days when my teenage “owls” stay as concealed and silent as Wordsworth’s sometimes
were, but there are also days when they do
respond – days when, for some mysterious reason, the call of my lesson plan
stirs up weird and wonderful replies. On those days, my classroom is a
wilderness in a most beautiful way – a place where unspoiled adolescence and
innocent old age team up to make some fairly raucous but graceful intellectual
“music”. On those days, I
sometimes read, in the evening with some Merlot accompaniment, the rest of the
passage from “The Prelude”:
“…
and they would shout
Across
the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,--with
quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams,
and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled;
concourse wild
Of
jocund din!”
I wouldn’t want
to have “quivering peals” in my classroom every day, just as I wouldn’t want to
hike in a wilderness every day, but coming every now and then, those “jocund”
days serve to remind me of the wonderful folly and wildness that seems to lie
hidden in the heart of good teaching.
***************
THOUGHTS LIKE SEEDS
There
will be some serious “planting” done in Room 2 today. Students will be with me
for roughly four hours, during which time we will create, among us, maybe
500,000 thoughts. We actually have no say in the matter. Whether we want them
to or not, our minds are constantly manufacturing ideas, sending out thoughts
like seed-spreaders. It’s as if there’s a factory inside us that works nonstop
to produce a ceaseless stream of thoughts. What’s interesting to me is that these thoughts – all of them—take root in our minds and
sprout and send out shoots of other thoughts, minute by minute as my classes
proceed. My students and I are not
aware of this process, of course, but it’s happening nonetheless – a silent,
incessant explosion and proliferation and dispersion of ideas inside us. I
suppose many of our thoughts during my English classes simply fall into the
soil of our lives and lie dormant for periods of time, perhaps even years – but
I believe they never just disappear. Our teenage and senior-citizen minds are
like vast meadows where thoughts beyond count rest beneath the surface, waiting
for the right time to spring up and offer assistance. Some of these sleeping
ideas were brought forth in English class, born during some bookish discussion
or perhaps during one of the many daydreaming expeditions my students surely
engage in while I’m teaching. It gives me satisfaction to know that no thought generated during my classes
(or anyone’s classes) goes to waste, that every wandering, wayfaring idea
inside our minds will be productive and helpful at some point. Years from now,
a former student might be speaking with a friend, when suddenly, unbeknownst to
her, old thoughts from 9th grade English might rise up in secret and
show her the words to use. Or perhaps a former student might be suffering a
great sorrow years from now, when somehow an idea born back in my class might
come into blossom and bring light and relief.
* * * * *
STEPPING OFF THE
STAGE
More
and more, I feel the need to observe myself as I go about my teaching duties. I
need to occasionally step to the side of the stage, in my mind, and simply
watch this 68-year-old teacher perform in his classroom. If I could do this now
and then, I would see that everything, in a way, is just fine – that no matter
what I do in the classroom, including no matter what mistakes I make, the show
turns out to be fairly interesting and satisfactory. Stepping back and
observing myself would settle me down, make me see that teaching, in fact, is
nothing personal. Education is not about some center-stage, powerhouse teacher
leading his students to the heights of wisdom. English class is not a drama
with a protagonist called Mr. Salsich. It’s just another of a zillion
enthralling pageants the universe puts on for entertainment’s sake, and getting
down off the stage now and then, at least in my mind, would help me appreciate
it. “Wow,” I might say, “look at me up there trying to teach. Whether I succeed
or fail, I seem to do both pretty well. I seem to be excellent at both winning
and losing in the classroom.”
* * * * *
WEARING THE TEACHER
COSTUME
As
a boy, I always enjoyed dressing up in costumes (not just at Halloween, but
anytime) and I actually still do. In fact, you might say I wear a costume every
day in my classroom, and I don’t just mean my bow tie and sweater: I put on a
sort of inner costume when I’m
teaching. I think of myself as playing a role – that of a middle school English
teacher – and so, as I’m preparing for school in the morning, I don an interior
set of clothes – a mindset, a way of thinking – that’s appropriate for the
role. Since I take this role seriously, I want to be fully prepared when the
curtain of my classroom goes up every day. To some, this may sound odd, even
irreverent, as though I’m not taking
my profession seriously, as though it’s merely a trivial pastime. Quite to the
contrary, teaching is an enterprise of great significance to me, just as a
prized role is of great significance to an actor. I want to play this teaching “part” with sincerity and
enthusiasm, since it’s a role I longed for as far back as my high school days.
If an Oscar were given for “best dramatic or comedic performance as a teacher”,
one of my unvarying goals would be to win one. Yes, I do take my role as a
teacher seriously, but it is just that
– a role, a part I play, a character I portray, a performance I put on each
day. It’s not so strange, really,
to think of it this way. I’m simply doing what the universe does. Each day, it
plays different roles, puts on different costumes – clouds one day, sparkling
light the next, train wreck one day, widespread happiness the next. The
universe moves from mornings to noons to nights with perfect aplomb, and I try
to move through my roles in a similar way, easily taking one inner costume off
and putting on another – quiet reader, writer, washer of dishes, grateful
grandfather, peculiar old English teacher.
* * * * *
IF NOT PLEASED,
CONTENTED
Reading
a bit of “The Prelude” this morning, I came across the passage where Wordsworth
describes the village people in France as being “pleased with [their] daily
task[s], or, if not pleased/ Contented…”, and I quickly realized that that is
exactly what I hope for my students. Realistically, I can’t hope that they will
be pleased with every English class, or even with any English class. We climb some rugged literary mountains in
class, and the writing the students are required to do is more like
constructing a solid house from scratch than throwing up an umbrella on the
beach. English class is an arduous workout rather than a walk in the park, and
what teenager would feel genuinely pleased while doing demanding mental
calisthenics? I do hope, however, that my students, like Wordsworth’s French
villagers, can feel contented during
my class – contented because they know they are doing what they should be
doing, and what will probably bring some benefits—at least down the road. Some
of us feel contented at the gym even as we force ourselves to go harder on the
treadmill, because we know we need the exercise, and I hope my students, at
least occasionally, feel contented in a similar way. If someone asked them if
they were happy to come to English class each day, truthfully I imagine most
would say no, but I would hope they might say they were “okay” with it. Perhaps
they would say, “I hate the hard work, but I can accept it.” That kind of
attitude would make a perfect atmosphere for class—a full awareness of the
wearying labor involved in reading great works of literature and writing
weighty essays, and yet a peaceful acceptance of it because it’s simply what
must be done from 10:30 to 11: 18 each day, and because, just maybe, there
might be some compensation involved. Maybe they’ll reach the “summit” of Macbeth and enjoy the startling view, or
maybe they’ll build an essay that’s as sturdy and stylish as a palace.
* * * * *
A COMFORTABLE ENGLISH
CLASS
I
would like my classes to be comfortable for my students, though by that I don’t
mean easy. The word “comfortable”
derives from the Latin words meaning “with power”, and easy assignments
certainly don’t promote the feeling of being with power. Only by setting
arduous tasks and challenging obstacles before the students can I encourage
them to feel their own power. Only by driving them up steep literary trails and
through thorny writing projects can I enable them to be truly comfortable –
truly able, quite literally, to be with
power. Of course, I always try
to be there to comfort the students as they wrestle with my weighty
assignments, but to comfort them is simply to remind them that they are already
“with the power” they need. When I comfort students, I don’t pity, feel sorry
for, commiserate with, or grieve for them; on the contrary, I simply remind
them that they already have all the power necessary to do the task at hand. I
remind them that they can be comfortable,
in the literal sense of that word, with the assignment.
* * * * *
MAGIC IN ROOM 2
I
occasionally do a simple feat of magic at the start of a lesson, just to rouse
up the students, but this morning I’m thinking about another kind of magic
that’s sometimes present in any English class. After all, we teachers of
literature deal with words, those magical parcels made of syllables and sounds.
I can’t think of any natural phenomenon that contains more natural enchantment
than a word. Sunrise happens miraculously each morning and a snowstorm can
transform a landscape like a wizard, but even the tiniest and softest word has
at least as much mysterious power. Listening to a Shakespeare sonnet read aloud
in class, a student or a teacher can be secretly changed by a single group of
words—quietly altered inside where thoughts and feelings respond to the words
in complex and inexplicable ways.
All the thousands of words my students and I speak as we discuss our
reading or writing – even the slightest words tossed out like light scraps of ideas
– have the power to rearrange our thoughts like a magician shuffles cards. I
guess I need to tread gently when I’m in my classroom, for enchantment is
happening all around. A student’s essay on the screen in front of the class can
show a sentence that makes common words seem astonishing, and the last sentence
in a Cather short story can change a drab day into a luminous one, at least for
few magical moments.
* * * * *
THE ENDLESS ENGLISH
CLASS
In
my reading before school this morning, I came across the phrase “without
beginning, without end”, and started wondering if perhaps English class could
be described that way. I’m sure my students would be thoroughly dismayed to
think that English class might be never-ending, but there may be some truth in
the notion that learning about the power of words (which is what English class
is about) doesn’t actually start at, say, 10:30 and end at 11:18. I officially
begin and end my classes at specific times, of course, but I can’t pretend that
my students find out about the stunts and transformations words can perform
only within those artificial time frames.
Surely my students are attending the universal, omnipresent class on
words and their wisdom at almost every waking moment. For instance, most of the
kids use words every chance they get, especially in casual conversations, those
informal festivals where words are exchanged, back and forth, like friendly or
frosty gifts. When they’re sending
out and receiving spoken words by the tens of thousands each day, is there any
chance they’re not learning a vast amount about the muscle and influence of
language? Is this not actually a daylong English class? And then there are the
endless amounts of words many of the students employ on Facebook, shooting
phrases back and forth like flares, hoping someone out in cyberspace might signal
back. As teachers, we can, if we choose, dismiss this unconventional,
exploratory use of language as a valueless learning tool, but that would be an
unfortunate mistake. Just because
a professional teacher is not conducting an official class does not mean
learning is not occurring—maybe, in fact, at a deeper and more genuine level
than in an authorized English class.
We learn about the charm and vitality of words by using them and
watching what happens, which is what my students do online for sometimes dozens
of hours each week. Is this not part of the never-starting, never-stopping
English class of their lives?
* * * * *
THE INVISIBLE WORLD
IN ENGLISH CLASS
In Book 6 of The Prelude, Wordsworth writes of “a
flash that … revealed/ The invisible world”, and it occurs to me that it might
be the kind of flash that happens occasionally in any English class. The fact
is that we English teachers and students sometimes deal with the invisible.
There are times when we’re like explorers in the world of the veiled and unseen.
In a way, we’re recreational clairvoyants, using a human being’s uncanny
ability to see beyond normal sensory contact – beyond the outer shell
of words on a page and into the hidden territory of their meanings. We, of
course, are visible as we sit at our desks in the classroom, and our tools are
certainly visible – books, paper, pencils, pens, laptops—but we do most of our
labor in the kingdom of thoughts, those ghostly artisans that flit through our
lives with spirit and influence. A
visitor to my classroom might see a fairly lackluster sight – a group of teens
and an old guy talking quietly – but what they wouldn’t see is what’s special.
Under the surface of the seemingly commonplace conversations, unseen ideas
would be dancing around in their own universe. It’s like science fiction, really – a strange, mysterious,
concealed world right under our noses in English class.
*
* * * *
NATURE
SMOOTHED BY ART
“…tones
of nature smoothed by learned Art…”
When
I came across this quote in Wordsworth’s The
Prelude today, I started thinking about the “smoothing” that sometimes (I
hope) happens in my classes. My students come to class as just what they are –
young, fidgety, worked up, and bemused kids, natural products of a boundless
and bewildering universe. The words they wrote last night on Facebook and are
speaking as they enter my room are purely “tones of nature” – expressions as
unfettered as storms or sunshine. They come in like breezes pass through the screen
– without restraint and effortlessly – and this is as it should be, and the way
I like it. My task, as their English teacher, is not to restrain or alter their
natural spiritedness, but simply to enable it to “smoothed by learned Art”. When they read in my class, I hope they
read with passion and pleasure, but I also hope their naturally raring-to-go
reading habits can be tempered by creative discipline. When they write, I hope they pour their
native fervor into the sentences and paragraphs, but my mission is to also make
available the tools of tidiness and artistry. It’s interesting to me that
Wordsworth’s specified that the “Art” is “learned”, as if he knew from
experience that making stylish phrases with words is anything but easy. Perhaps
he was suggesting that word-artists are not born, but only made through steady
labor and enduring single-mindedness. Perhaps he felt that smoothing out our
naturally wild thoughts and words is the most resourceful road to smart and
skillful reading and writing. In
this regard, I often think of stones in a riverbed. Eons ago, they were
naturally rough and sharp, but the patient river has steadily smoothed them
until they now sometimes seem as polished as gems. As their English teacher, I
need to show the students the value of coolly rolling some artistry and
discipline over their natural ways of reading and writing.
*
* * * *
THE
IMPERSONALNESS OF TEACHING
“I
looked upon these things
As
from a distance; heard, and saw, and felt,
Was
touched, but with no intimate concern…”
--Wordsworth,
The Prelude, Book VI
There
is no such word as “impersonalness”, but it helps me say what I want to say –
that teaching should be as impersonal as possible. Helping students realize
their potential should in no way be influenced by, or hinge on, my personality,
my ego, or my sense of self. In
fact, my sense of myself as a separate person who needs to “succeed” as a
teacher can only hinder my work in the classroom. Only by seeing teaching and
learning as something way beyond individual personalities – something much
bigger than egos and self-images – can I hope to feel the full force of the
learning process. It has always seemed to me that breaking through the sense of
separateness and isolation is the fastest way to open the door to learning.
When my students struggle with the educational process, it’s often because they
are seeing themselves as disconnected, cut-off individuals fighting to gather
knowledge as though it were occasional stones of gold. They struggle because they see the
learning process as being very personal – their small, insubstantial, and restricted
personal talents pitted against the vast universe of facts and data. What I hope to do is help the students
see the process in a very different way – not as a personal struggle but as a
kind of harmonious swirl of ideas.
By “harmonious” I don’t mean that no work is involved in the learning
process – just that the work can be pleasant rather than painful. By getting
our egos out of the way (as much as is possible in this ego-obsessed era) both
the students and I could perhaps relax and truly enjoy our education. We could, perchance, look upon our
education “[as] from a distance” – as a curious adventure we are part of, but
one that we can also dispassionately observe and appreciate. We could teach and
learn “with no intimate concern” – no worries about our self-esteem or
reputation, but with a simple sense of gratitude for the wonder of it all.
* * * * *
A GRATEFUL TEACHER
As
my years in the classroom have passed, I have increasingly enjoyed a feeling of
gratitude at the end of a school day.
I often compare it to a feeling at the conclusion of a hike in the Grand
Canyon. Sure, things might not have gone exactly the way I had planned (perhaps
a fall on the trail, or only half of a lesson covered in class), but how can I
complain when I’m surrounded by a canyon of the gods or a group of children
born to be brave and wise? If you’re in paradise, shouldn’t you feel grateful
at the end of the day, no matter what happened? It takes no effort to complain
(many of us teachers would get straight A’s for our griping and grumbling), but
it sometimes– surprisingly – takes concentrated effort to see the miracles
right in front of our eyes. When I hear teachers complain about their work with
young people, I picture people sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon with
blindfolds on. How did they come to forget how fortunate they are? When I think
of the millions of people who have no job, and the millions who labor in
physically wearying work, and the millions who see zero positive results from
their toil, it’s hard to feel sympathy for teachers who grouse about their work
with the youth of our world. Is it easy work? No, and neither is hiking a high
trail in the Grand Canyon, but the rewards are inestimable. At the end of most
days, I sit in my empty classroom and feel utterly grateful. I wonder, over and
over, how I got so lucky. How did the universe happen to set me down in this
clean, well-lighted place where dozens of emergent human beings come to me each
day for guidance, support, and companionship? Maybe it was a rough day, but,
like a difficult day in the Grand Canyon, the roughness is smoothed out and
softened, always, by the shear substance and magnificence of the work I am damn
lucky to be doing.
* * * * *
WANDERING A PATHLESS
COAST
…that
pathless coast,--
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
--
William Cullen Bryant, “To a Waterfowl”
In
the above quote, the poet is talking about a bird, not a 9th grade
English teacher, but I often go back to this poem as I try to find my way along
the “pathless coast” of teaching teenagers. Of course, a visitor to my
classroom might see me as the opposite of a “lone wandering” soul. I dress
quite formally and try to present myself to the students as an erudite and
skilled educator, one who knows precisely where he’s going and how to get
there. I come to class equipped with a comprehensive lesson plan, and I do my best
to march the scholars through the steps with a reasonable amount of coolness
and clout. However, the fact is that I often feel more like a bird gone astray
in a “desert of illimitable air” than a self-assured, proficient educator.
There’s actually a lot of make-believe in my teaching: making believe I
understand these kids, making believe I know what I’m doing, making believe I’m
poised and self-assured, when in fact I’m just a befuddled rover in the great
labyrinth of learning. After 40+
years in the classroom, the “coast” of teaching, as I journey along it, seems
more pathless, more incomprehensible than ever. Yes, I’ve learned a thousand
tricks, techniques, tools, strategies, and tactics, but the grand mystery of it
all remains. Indeed, it’s a fabulous enterprise we teachers are involved in –
fabulous meaning literally like a fable or a legend. I often feel like I’m
laboring in the old storybook world of Theseus as I find my way through the
labyrinth of English teaching. I know there are holy grails hidden in this work
we do, and I’m still loyally seeking them, but sometimes, the closer I get, the
farther away I feel. The task of
teaching kids how to read deeply and write stylishly sometimes seems as “boundless”
as the sky in Bryant’s poem, through which the waterfowl flies toward the
sunset. However, amidst the vague
and unsure vastness of the world, the bird’s flight still seems strangely
“certain” to the poet. That word is prominent in the poem – certain, like no doubt about it,
assured, definite. The bird will get where it needs to go, and so – if I’m
patient and keep making those detailed lesson plans – will I.
* * * * *
TALENTS DIFFER
“But all sorts of
things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year,
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
Must be taken in together
To make up a year,
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I’m not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry:
I’ll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut.”
--A
squirrel talking to a mountain,
in Emerson’s “Fable”
When
I read this poem, I often picture one of my students speaking, instead of a
squirrel, and I, the supposedly imposing English teacher, am the mountain being
addressed. Sadly, my students may actually feel like squirrels as they scamper
around trying to accomplish my obscure and troublesome tasks, and they may see
me, their silvery, age-old teacher, as a somewhat bizarre mountain looming in
their midst for 48 minutes each day.
Students probably often feel like lesser creatures when they’re laboring
in the shadow of a teacher, especially one who’s old enough to be their
grandfather. I can imagine that my students would empathize with the squirrel
in Emerson’s poem, who is unabashed enough to speak his mind to the lordly
mountain. I can imagine the students reminding me that, yes,
“all sorts of things
and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year”,
Must be taken in together
To make up a year”,
including impish, obstreperous, and seriously talented teenagers.
They might remind me that, though they don’t have as many degrees as I have,
neither do I have as much spryness as they have. “Talents differ”,
they would tell me. Yes, I can analyze a Wordsworth sonnet with dispatch, enjoy
Shakespeare in a hurricane, and recite all the 10,000 grammar rules, but I
can’t skateboard, dance for sixty straight minutes, laugh at just about
anything, daydream castles and spaceships, do stupid stunts for laughs, or feel
youthfulness flowing through my veins like an almighty river. They can’t
diagram a 70-word sentence, but neither can I feel 70 freehanded years
unfurling ahead of me.
* * * * *
WAVES, CURRENTS, AND
KIDS
I’ve
been repeatedly told, over the years, that I must keep in mind the many
differences among all of my students, and I agree, but I must also remember
that, in one sense, there are actually no differences whatsoever. One of the
definitions for different is
“separate”, and it is easy to drift into seeing my students as separate,
distinct entities, each one an individual with unique skills and weaknesses.
That, in fact, is the perception upon which our entire educational system, and
our whole culture, seems to be based – that all of us, my students included,
are separate, isolated individuals struggling to switch on our independent and
inimitable lamps. Of course, in
order to participate dutifully and effectively in our educational system, I
occasionally do have to think this way – that each student is different and distinct,
and that I must help each of them go his or her own exclusive way in the world.
It’s convenient to accept this approach – to play this game – because it helps
the students find success in our artificial educational structures—success
meaning simply high grades and excellent test scores. It’s somewhat like a
mariner pretending that there are specific, separate “things” called currents
in the ocean. This pretense definitely helps him navigate across an ocean, but
at the same time he stays fully aware that there are, in reality, no such “things”
as isolated currents – just a vast, unified ocean that seems to move in fairly
consistent patterns. I guess I try to see each of my classes as a sort of human
ocean (an immense one, I should add), in which the students together (not
separately) make up the currents. For the sake of grades, tests, conferences,
records, and so on, it’s convenient to think of the students as separate
learners in their own separate seas of learning, but it’s just a bit of
make-believe, a useful game. The reality is that my classes are uncharted
teenage oceans, complete with storms and surf and doldrums and crazy currents.
Morgan and Asia and Joseph are no more separate from each other than one
current in the ocean is separate from another, or one wave from another. The students
are part of life, and life, as science is revealing more and more clearly, is
as interconnected as drops of water in a stream. It would be silly to give a
grade to a single drop of water, and it seems silly to me to give grades to
individual students. However, I do it, because that’s the game I have to play
as I stand on the shore of a 9th grade class and admire the
unsearchable sea in front on me.
* * * * *
BEING A COLUMBUS IN
ENGLISH CLASS
“Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents
and worlds within you, opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought.”
--Thoreau,
in Walden, “Conclusion”
There
is one sense in which my students have total freedom in English class: they can
think the thoughts of their choice. They can’t always act or speak
exactly as they want, but there are no restrictions on their thinking. Their
minds are as free as the boundless air. They can think, ponder, reflect,
imagine, and ruminate as unreservedly as breezes blow. Perhaps I should
occasionally remind my students of this grand fact, for nothing is more
precious to young people than their freedom, and a feeling of complete mental
liberty might make English class seem more brisk and bracing. If I remind my
students, every now and then, that their thoughts are free to fly wherever they
wish during my class, perhaps they’ll feel that rush of looseness and openness
we all feel when we’re set free. You may worry that this could create distracted
and day-dreamy students, but I would say, rather, that it would simply create freethinking
students – kids who take pleasure in their minds’ ability to roam the universe
of ideas. English class is concerned, above all, with words, and words are made
of thoughts, so anything I can do to liberate the thoughts of my students will
give a lift to my classes. Sure, there’s a chance their thoughts will float far
away from the matter under discussion in class, but that’s a chance I’m happy
to take. Give me—any day—uninhibited young thinkers who occasionally drift away
from the lesson, over limited and locked-up thinkers who always follow the
teacher’s line of thought like prisoners follow the jailer.
* * * * *
ASTONISHING
SILENCE
Every
now and then, I remember to use silence to bring some intensity to the
atmosphere in my classroom. I’ve always felt that, in teaching, silence has at
least as much power as sound, and sometimes considerably more. Since the
students hear teachers and each other talking almost nonstop throughout the
day, any moment of silence can be a refreshing, almost shocking, break in the
routine. In the students’ noisy world, a little silence can be like sunshine
after hours of rain. Not many days ago, I read a poem aloud to a 9th
grade class, and when I came to the end I simply stood in silence at the front
of the room. I remained silent for only about twenty seconds, but I suspect it
had a surprising effect on the kids. In their often strident and raucous lives,
twenty seconds of silence can seem like time without end. As they were sitting
silently and listening to the ticking of my classroom clock, they might have
been thinking, “This is really strange”, and I’m okay with that. After all,
‘strange’ can also mean surprising, extraordinary, even astonishing—three
adjectives any teacher would be proud to be associated with.
TEACHING
ENGLISH, TOSSING PEBBLES
It
came to me today that teaching is somewhat like tossing pebbles from a boat
into a lake. During each 48-minute class period, I sit in my tiny teacher-boat
and throw stone after stone into the vast lake of my students’ lives. I toss in
steps in the lesson, suggestions, statements, questions, reminders, reprimands,
commands, and demands – one after the other, dozens and hundreds, maybe more
than a thousand pebbles in each class. What’s interesting to realize is that
every one of these pebbles has an effect on the students, just as every pebble
sends out ripples in a lake. All
the hundreds of words I speak, gestures I make, smiles and frowns I show, are
small stones that splash inside the students’ minds and hearts and instantly
send waves rippling out. It’s
impossible to say what kind of effect these ripples will ultimately have on my
students, but that they will have an effect is beyond question. Every ripple in
a lake alters the lake, if only in the tiniest ways, and every pebble I flip
out to my students modifies their young, sensitive lives, if just in minuscule
and marginal ways. As I thought about this today, the unpredictability and
uncertainty of it all was slightly unsettling. The truth is that most of the
words, gestures, and expressions I use during class are casual, haphazard
events. I plan a careful lesson each day, but once class starts, I begin
tossing pebbles just about as fast as I can think. It’s a wonder my figurative
teacher-boat doesn’t swamp and sink each day, what with all my arbitrary and
incessant pebble-tossing. Maybe I
can change. Maybe I can slow down enough to at least periodically use some care
in selecting a pebble, and maybe I can occasionally pause, just for a second or
two, to see how the ripples shape themselves and start rolling out to some
distant shore.
* * * * *
THE BEST GAME EVER
The other day, as I was pondering the old maxim
“it’s only a game”, I was reminded that teaching is better pictured that way.
In fact, I think the surest way to achieve true contentment is to view my
classroom work not just as a game, but as a friendly, pleasant spectator sport,
where I am both an active player and a bemused fan. Instead of seeing myself as
part of an intensely serious contest, the results of which carry life-or-death
implications, I need to occasionally step back and be an observer of the
light-hearted game called education. I need to see my little “self” down there
in the playing field of my classroom, dashing here and there, performing weird
and wonderful feats, or just temporarily convalescing on the “bench” (my chair
at my desk). I should cheer, boo, sigh, scream, or applaud for my “self” and
the other players (my students), all the while remaining at ease and satisfied
because, after all, it’s only a game. With
that kind of a distant eyewitness viewpoint, I would, perhaps, eventually come
to realize that all my daily doings and goings-on as a teacher, all my earnest
endeavors and pursuits in the classroom, all my serious thoughts and
aspirations about being the best teacher I can possibly be, are, in fact,
merely part of a highly entertaining game – a game in which there are no losers. (The inventor and referee of the game
is the Universe, and it only allows winning. Unfortunately, many of the
contestants don’t realize that.) If something “bad” happens to my “self “– a
boring class, an irate parent, a principal gone haywire — oh well, it’s just a
game, and anyway, eventually I’ll see my self (and all my teammates and
competitors) holding up the cup of victory, as usual. Sooner or later I’ll see,
once more, that winning is the only possible outcome for the game of education,
and that even failure, oddly enough, is a victory for learning. I’ll sit back,
get out my binoculars, and continue watching Hamilton Salsich – so distant, small,
and beautiful in this measureless arena owned by the Universe – playing the
game of teaching in his intense, comfortable, and buoyant way.
* * * * *
HEARTS, LUNGS, WEATHER, AND WORK
When
I picture myself, which I occasionally do, as a heavily burdened, harried
teacher laboring away like a self-sacrificing hero of some sort, that line of
thinking is usually brought to a stop fairly quickly by the realization that,
while I’m admiring my self-styled valiant efforts, other kinds of labor of more
astonishing proportions are continually happening. For instance, while I’m
carrying the supposedly grave weight of teaching teenagers, my heart is
carrying a truly amazing responsibility – that of keeping me alive. In a
typical 48-period English class, my loyal heart beats about 3,000 times, always
in perfect rhythm, always pushing precisely the right amount of blood out to my
cells. Not only that, my lungs faithfully rise and fall hundreds of times while
I go about my allegedly prodigious task of teaching writing and reading. While I’m just trying to get some kids
to stay alert and learn a few skills, my heart and lungs are giving me the gift
of life, over and over again. And then I look outside at the breezes and the
clouds and the sky vanishing in the distance, and I wonder at the ceaseless
work of nature. While I’m mentally commiserating with myself for the wearisome
work I have to do for a few hours each day, the sun and wind and weather
continue to do their truly epic work. When I’m slumped over my desk at lunch,
wondering how I can possibly make it through my last two challenging classes,
the earth, as it has done for about fifteen billion years, keeps working its
way through space, dutifully carrying me and mountains and seas and a few
billion other riders.
* * * * *
AN EXHAUSTING ENGLISH
CLASS
I
wonder if my students ever feel like flopping down in utter exhaustion after
English class. When they walk out of the classroom, are their minds ever, so to
speak, gasping for breath because of the intense brain workout they’ve
experienced during my class? Do they ever feel like the class they just left
was one of the most demanding ordeals they’ve ever been through? I actually hope so. In a way, I
wouldn’t mind if my classes had some similarities to the women’s Olympic10K
cross-country ski race I watched this afternoon. As the competitors crossed the
finish line, they collapsed with fatigue, leaning on their poles and struggling
for breath. They had given all of their strength to doing their best, and all
they could do at the end was stagger and slump in weariness. Why shouldn’t my
students feel a kind of breathless fatigue at the end of English class? If I’m
doing my job as their English teacher (or coach, as I often think of myself),
shouldn’t I demand their absolute best at all times? Shouldn’t I expect them to
drive their brains with the same intensity that the Swedish gold medal winner
drove her body today? The ski race was a grueling test for the competitors, and
maybe I should think of a 48-minute 9th grade English class that
way. Maybe I’d like to see the kids come to class with severe and single-minded
faces, the way they might approach the starting line of a punishing race. At
the end of class, I could offer, perhaps, cups of ice water to refresh their
worn out minds as they drag themselves out the door.
* * * * *
TEACHING LIKE AN UMBRELLA
Someone
once told me that a teacher should be like an umbrella for his students, and
I’ve been thinking about that analogy recently. An umbrella basically protects
a person, gives a safe shelter, guards a person in unsettled situations – and
that’s also what a teacher does. The world my teen-age students are growing up
in is a turbulent one, and it is the responsibility of the school and its
teachers to offer a safe haven for the students, a place where they can learn
and grow in security. When they enter my classroom, my students need to know
that there’s order and safekeeping here – that they can accomplish much because
the “umbrella” of Mr. Salsich’s teaching is always there for shelter. Part of
that sense of shelter comes from the fact that my classes are orderly affairs.
Insecurity arises in young people when things are muddled and unruly – when
they literally don’t know where they’re going or what will happen next. In my
classroom, I need to provide an umbrella for my students’ sometimes stormy
lives. I need to create an atmosphere of stability and consistency, a setting
where they know exactly what the procedures are and exactly what they need to
do. Indeed, even my hardest assignments can be a sort of umbrella. If my
students are given clear (though perhaps complex) guidelines, and if the goals
of the assignment are totally obvious and the necessary resources are available
to them, then they will feel, surprisingly enough, secure. They will know
precisely what needs to be done and how to do it. The umbrella of the
well-designed assignment is there to keep out any confusion or uncertainty. A
final point to make is that sometimes umbrellas are not needed. On sunny days,
we can leave it at home, and in certain situations in the classroom, the
students can be free to work without the specific guidance (protection) of the
teacher (umbrella). That’s a good feeling for them and for me. They’re on their
own, using their own resources and providing their own guidance, and I can put
the umbrella away and simply watch.
* * * * *
PEACE SO PERFECT
ANIMAL
TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY
by
William Wordsworth
The
little hedgerow
birds,
That peck along the roads, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5
That peck along the roads, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5
A
man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought. — He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
With thought. — He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten ; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That
patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
I
have loved this poem for many years, and have always secretly harbored the hope
that I could someday be like Wordsworth’s “Old Man”, especially in my work as a
teacher. As a senior citizen, I am already an officially old man, and I’d like
to learn how to do oldness with the “patience” and “mild composure” of this
man. I’m not sure why, but I’m quite happy to be an old teacher, perhaps for
some of the same reasons that this man seems happy. As the years have passed, I
have found more “settled quiet” in my teaching, more opportunity to “move[]/
With thought” than with stress and strain and pain. Teaching
seems more like the capricious breezes of spring than the somewhat stormy
seasons of my earlier years in the classroom. In a way, it’s even rather nice
that my students, like the “hedgerow birds” in the poem, sometimes seem to not
even notice me in the classroom. I don’t mean that they’re more disrespectful
or unruly than in earlier years; in fact, the opposite seems to be the case.
Like the poet’s old man, perhaps I don’t stand out in my classroom precisely
because I fit in more now than in the early days of my career. I’m no longer a grating, strident, and
strange outsider to the kids, but simply an elderly teacher who quietly shares
his insights with them. They “peck along the roads” of education, and I’m
pecking along right beside them. Perhaps they’re even a little comforted by the
“long patience” I’ve gained over the years. I work hard, but I no longer do
much rushing or dashing or stressing. Teaching has become such a gentle process
for me that, indeed, it sometimes feels like “[a]ll effort seems forgotten”.
CONSTANCY
“…Who rides his sure and even trot
While the world now rides by, now lags behind.”
--
George Herbert, “Constancy”
Of
all the virtues I admire in good teachers, none is more special to me than
constancy. One definition is “the quality of being faithful and
dependable”, which is exactly the way I hope my students would describe me. I
don’t especially care if I’m an exciting or funny or creative or even
“excellent” teacher (whatever that means) – but I very much want to be a
faithful and dependable one. Amid
the young scholars’ sometime mystifying and mixed-up lives, I want their
English teacher to ride his “sure and even trot” day after day. If some things fall apart around them,
well, at least Mr. Salsich will be the same. Of course, being the same could
mean being boring, but it doesn’t have to. It could simply mean being dependable
– being a sort of solid rock in a fairly tumultuous world, a strong tree in the
blustery lives of the students.
Actually, “strong” may be exactly the right synonym for constancy in
this regard. A teacher with constancy is a strong teacher – one who stays
faithful to his principles in the midst of distress and distractions, one whom
students can depend upon to be basically the same today and tomorrow as
yesterday. Since there is more than enough caprice in my students’ lives, I
don’t need to add any more by changing my behaviors and routines every other
week. I guess I’m more interested in being a sound and steady teacher than an exciting one – more
like a well-built building than the whimsical weather. “While the world now
rides by, now lags behind,” may Mr. Salsich stay the same, a constant and true
old teacher who has a few simple things to share with young scholars of
English.
* * * * *
ENGLISH CLASS IN THE
BASTILLE
“People who share a cell in the
Bastille or are thrown together on an uninhabited island, if they do not
immediately fall to fisticuffs, will find some possible ground of compromise.
They will learn each other’s ways and humours so as to know where they must go
warily and where they may lean their whole weight.”
--
Robert Louis Stevenson, “Virginibus Puerisque”
Happily,
my classroom is not much like a prison cell or an isolated island. There’s a
fair amount of sparkle and merriment in my classes, and I don’t think my
students feel much like inmates (even though the hard labor I force upon them
may often seem punishing). There’s usually a spirit of comfortableness in my
classes that would be hard to find on a deserted island. Yet, in a very real way, my students
and I are strangers when we meet each day, strangers in the sense that what we
show to each other, what we say and how we act, is just the slight surface of
our vast and baffling lives. We actually know no more about each other than we
know about the reaches of outer space. It’s as if we all stumble into Room 2
and greet each other afresh each day, washed up and stunned on an empty island.
However, as Stevenson suggests, we usually “find some possible ground of
compromise.” I’m a well-weathered senior citizen and they are unsullied,
up-and-coming children, but we slowly “learn each other’s ways”, make
concessions, and find the middle ground. I learn to “go warily” in certain
areas with the students, and they learn, I’m sure, when to tiptoe around me. Of
course, I also steadily discover where and when I can “lean [my] whole weight”
on the young people – let the influence of 68 years of learning and living
gently but relentlessly urge them onward. We’re way different from each other –
teenage children and a windswept old guy, restless kids and a stress-free
granddad. We’re basically strangers sitting together in a small classroom each
day, but we usually find Stevenson’s “possible ground” where sitting sometimes
becomes sharing.
* * * * *
HOPE AND HAZARD
“…himself he
feels,
In those vast regions
where his service lies,
A freeman, wedded to
his life of hope
And hazard, and hard
labour interchanged
With that majestic
indolence so dear
To native man.”
--Wordsworth, Book
VII, “The Prelude”
My
work as an English teacher takes place in a small, nondescript classroom on a
commonplace country road, and yet I often (almost every day) feel like I’m
laboring in “vast regions”, to quote from Wordsworth’s lines above. He’s
talking about solitary shepherds among the hills and valleys of England, but I
might as well be a shepherd as I attempt to herd, persuade, guide, and
sometimes simply drive my young students toward the goals I set for them. It’s
often a solitary feeling, too – the sense that it’s just the students and I
alone in a wilderness of spoken and written words. We wander here and there in
our discussions as we try to find meaning in poems and stories, with me
circling, prodding, containing, rousing, and stimulating. As the students write
their weekly essays, they, too, probably feel like shepherds – or border
collies – as they attempt to push their unruly words into reasonably
recognizable paragraphs. However – though I’m not sure the students feel this
way – I feel like a total “freeman” as I go about this sometimes lonely,
hit-and-miss work of teaching. There’s “hazard” in the job, of course (wilting
lessons, inscrutable students, parents on the prowl), but there’s more than
enough “hope” (lessons like missiles, kids with grins to give away) to balance
things out. I put in a great amount of “hard labour”, but I always find, to my
amazement, a feeling of “majestic indolence” floating through me at odd moments
during class. I often pause in the midst of a class and take a few seconds,
privately, to express my thanks for my good life as a classroom shepherd. While
kids in my care are sharing thoughts about a topic, I sometimes sit smiling in
the classroom rocking chair—a fortunate, privileged, prosperous 68-year-old
guide and guardian.
* * * * *
A CURIOUS TRAVELER
“…Till
the whole cave, so late a senseless mass,
Busies
the eye with images and forms
Boldly
assembled…”
--
Wordsworth, Book VII, “The Prelude”
I
sometimes feel like I’m entering a dark cave when I walk into my classroom.
It’s not an especially dark room, but a strange kind of figurative darkness
exists when I think of the inscrutability of both my students and the subject I
teach. After all these years of teaching, I still find teenagers as obscure as
the darkest cave, and nothing, to me, seems more impenetrable than some of our
greatest literature—a Hopkins poem, for instance, or a story by Faulkner. In
spite of all I’ve learned about teaching English over the years, I’m as much
“in the dark” as I was when I started back in 1965, the only difference being
that now I know I’m in the dark. It
often reminds me of the above passage, in which Wordsworth speaks of “curious
travelers” who enter a cave and, as their eyes slowly grow accustomed to the
darkness, gradually see astonishing “images and forms” along the walls. As a
teacher, I have definitely been a “curious traveler”, a wanderer in the wilds
of English education, and much of my time, it seems, has been spent slowly
adjusting to the darkness of my own ignorance. Even with the most carefully
planned lesson, I often feel like I’m tiptoeing through a shadowy cave,
watching and hoping for pathways and truths to slowly reveal themselves. It
reminds me of a time near the start of my career when a veteran spelunker led
my students and me into a cave in Missouri. When we entered a section of almost
total darkness, we could see nothing at all, which is often the way I feel
about ten minutes into a lesson. However, as we patiently waited for our eyes
to adjust, we slowly began to see strange “images and forms” along the walls of
the cave, fantastic shapes that had been hidden from us. “See?” our guide said.
“All you have do is wait” – and I’ve
taken his advice all these years. Literature and teenagers are as murky as
ever, but if I wait in a good-natured way, wonders usually reveal
themselves.
* * * * *
STABILITY IN THE CLASSROOM
I’ve
been meditating lately on the importance of stability in my classroom. One
definition for the word stable is “resistant to change of position or
condition; not easily moved or disturbed,” and I would hope that my students
see my English class as being stable in that sense – as a class that’s
carefully planned and solidly constructed and therefore not likely to be
capricious and confusing. The idea of trust is important here: I want my
students to trust that the foundations of my English class in May are going to
be exactly the same as they were in September, and, more importantly, to trust
that they can take risks in my class because the foundations of the class are
stable enough to support uncertain, touch-and-go thinking. An even more
interesting definition of the “stable” is “maintaining equilibrium;
self-restoring”, as in “a stable aircraft”. This aspect of stability is vital
to my classroom. My teaching must definitely be “self-restoring” – able, like
an airplane, to quickly right itself after a stumble or a mistake or a poorly
taught lesson, and get back on course. My students, too, must learn to be
stable in this sense. It might, in fact, be helpful for them to think of themselves
as well-balanced airplanes, able to maintain a fair amount of steadiness
through any kind of “rough weather” school might throw at them. Finally, a
third definition for “stable” is “enduring or permanent”, as in “a stable
peace”. I hope my students feel this kind of stability in my English classes. I
hope they sense, if only occasionally, that what they are learning in my class
will endure after the class ends in June. We certainly don’t have a stable
peace in the world, but perhaps I can create, in my classroom, a degree of
academic stability for my students – most particularly, an understanding of our
language that will endure in at least a somewhat lasting way.
* * * * *
ALL THE SURPRISING IDEAS
The
other day, after a student had shared her interpretation of a poem in class, I
replied, “That’s a really surprising idea” – but it occurred to me later that all ideas are surprising. Because we
grow so accustomed to ideas, their inimitability and richness often go
unnoticed, but the fact is that each idea is a pristine marvel. It seems clear to me that every idea is
totally new, never been thought in just that way in the history of thinking. A
thought may be similar to other thoughts, but in certain, sometimes secret
ways, it has its own matchless style and substance. Every thought is like every
moment – fresh, unblemished, and ready to do its irreplaceable work. Luckily
for me, I spend my days in the classroom surrounded by the steady streaming of
these new ideas – hundreds and thousands of them. In a 48-minute English class,
my students and I together might produce 37,000 ideas, a figurative Mississippi
River of spanking new thoughts surging through the classroom and our lives. If
I thought about it as I was teaching, I might feel utterly overwhelmed by the
reality of so much fresh and forceful thinking.
* * * * *
LIKE-MINDEDNESS
Sometimes
it seems clear to me that my students and I are like-minded. That may seem
strange to say, since I am a 68-year-old wizened, old-world teacher and they
are newly blossoming adolescents, but still, a strange similarity seems to
exist among our thoughts. We seem to think a similar mixture of apprehensive, promising,
anxious, and optimistic thoughts. They sometimes feel afraid, as I do, and,
like me, they occasionally feel full of assurance and security. I often wonder if thinking is a kind of
ocean, and my students and I are simply waves and swells in that single ocean.
It’s easy to get spellbound by the notion that we’re all separate thinkers
doing our own unique kind of thinking, but to me, that seems far from the
truth. It’s also easy to look out at the ocean from the beach and pretend that
each wave is a separate entity, but in that case we know it’s a pretense, because
we know the ocean is a single vast force, of which waves are simply phases.
Thinking, it seems to me, is also a single force, of which my students and I
are phases, parts, and stages. The fears and hopefulness I feel are similar to
the fears and hopefulness they feel, but just in different parts of the
measureless sea of thoughts.
* * * * *
PLIABLE TEACHING
“ … her
pliancy had ended in her sometimes taking shapes of
surprising definiteness.”
surprising definiteness.”
-- George
Eliot, Daniel Deronda
As
the years have passed, I’ve tried, with some success, to become more pliable in
my teaching, which is why I was particularly struck when I read the above words
today. In the novel, Mrs. Gascoigne’s pliancy is not always constructive, but
for a teacher it can be a useful and rewarding attribute. I guess I’ve
gradually learned to be more elastic, bending and bowing with the students as
we do our work. I’ve become better at adjusting and fine-tuning myself during a
48-minute class. When I’m teaching, I often think of trees and sailors – trees
for their unfailing flexibility in winds of all kinds, and sailors for their
judicious management of sails in shifting weathers. I picture myself as an old
but limber beech tree – limbs grown long and large over the years, but still as
flexible as ever, bending stylishly in breezes or storms. Teaching English to
teenagers can be an unsettled, even tempestuous, enterprise, and suppleness is
a necessity. I’ve noticed that old trees sometimes bend the best, and I’m
hoping that might be true for old teachers – and old sailors, too. I see
myself, on certain days, as a sailor in a small ship with my students. Whatever
the “weather” of the classroom throws at us – rowdy ideas, unmanageable lesson
plans, and assorted other surprises – the old teacher-captain has to be pliant
enough to change plans, alter course, shift sails, and work with, instead of
against, the conditions present in the classroom. I think of myself, sometimes, as a kind of “Elastic-man”,
able to change shape and style at will, always ready to coil and curl and
change directions as the students and I work through a lesson plan. Perhaps I
should do mental aerobics before class, just to prepare my mind to be
extra-flexible in the face of my fanciful and capricious teenager thinkers.
* * * * *
A GENEROUS CLASSROOM
“Mr. Quallon the banker kept a generous
house.”
--George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
Mr.
Quallon kept a generous house in part because he was wealthy, and I hope that,
even in my fairly tightfisted school, I can keep a generous classroom. To me,
that would mean a kind and big-hearted classroom, one that benevolently
welcomes all kinds of kids and ideas. It would mean a charitable classroom,
where the students and teacher are as interested in giving as in getting, as
willing to distribute as to receive. It would mean, too, an abundant classroom,
containing more than enough support and payoffs for everyone, enough honors for
one and all to make students and teacher perhaps actually take sincere pleasure
in their stay there, perhaps even think of it as a satisfying place for a
stopover each day.
* * * * *
NEW LIGHTS
“It was literally a
new light for them to see him in.”
--George Eliot, Daniel
Deronda
I
was struck by the above sentence this morning, because it reminded me of the kind
of teacher I hope to one day become. I hope I can grow to consistently see the
new lights that shine on (and in) my students each day – lights that enable me
to be grateful for them in new ways. The lackluster overhead lights in my
classroom shed the same featureless light down on all of us, so it’s important
that I notice the other kinds of “lights” that illuminate my students. It’s
important that I see each of them as surrounded by their own distinctive light,
one that shifts and varies and shines in new ways moment by moment. And of
course, the special light of their individual lives is always there, always glowing. Each of my students is an assemblage
of gifts and powers beyond belief – a work of untainted wonder that can’t be
replicated. They each think thoughts and feel feelings whose lights could light
up many classrooms. They are youthful
dynamos of undreamed of mental and emotional power, able to transform lives
(their own and others’) with their own minds and hearts. Alas, I’m often unable
to see or appreciate these powers – these lights that shine around and inside
my students. I’m like a blind man who doesn’t know there’s a stunning sunset in
front of him. At any given time, there are many young lights flaring and
flashing in my classroom, but it takes wide-open eyes to see them.
* * * * *
ALL-OVER-THE-PLACE THINKING
“Klesmer’s
thoughts had flown off on the wings of his own
statement, as their habit was.”
statement, as their habit was.”
--
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
Don’t
thoughts often do this – winging away as soon as we’ve put them into words,
soaring off to far-flung worlds of new thoughts? And isn’t this one of the best
things about thoughts – their restlessness, their ability to travel to mental
places we never knew existed? I’m
lucky to see and experience this phenomenon everyday in English class. My
students and I give voice to innumerable thoughts each day, and all those
thoughts, I’m sure, take wing as soon as the words leave our lips. They flutter
off to who knows where, with us following in our whimsical ways. In this
manner, we let our thoughts lead to other thoughts, which make new words for us
to speak, which set more thoughts soaring off in search of more new thoughts to
make more new spoken words. It’s a high-ceilinged, haphazard, freestyle sort of
experience, this thinking in English class – somewhat like spring breezes
starting countless other breezes blowing. Growing up, I was often advised to
discipline my thinking, to tighten the reins on my thoughts, and no doubt
there’s a place in school for that kind of regimented thinking – but there’s
also a place for liberated, all-over-the-place thinking. Especially in English
class, adventurous thoughts shouldn’t have to stay in birdcages.
* * * * *
LIVELY GRACE
“Gwendolen did not greatly
distinguish herself in
these first experiments, unless it were by the lively grace with which she took her comparative failure.”
these first experiments, unless it were by the lively grace with which she took her comparative failure.”
-- George Eliot, Daniel
Deronda
At
the end of each day, I hope I can award myself an ‘A+’ for my failures. Like
most mere mortals, I fail many times each day, and I hope I can do it each time
with “lively grace”, as Eliot puts it. It’s easy to be nimble and bubbly when
life is falling into its perfect places, but I want to be good company even
when much of a school day seems lost in disappointment. When I read this
passage today, I pictured a dancer moving across the floor with “lively grace”,
and I wondered if it’s possible for a person who has gravely failed to behave
in a similarly balanced and beautiful way. If a visitor came to my classroom
just after a lesson plan had badly broken down, I would hope they would see a
teacher who seemed poised and brave. I would want them to see a teacher who
knew that his failure would foster fresh insights and new occasions for
success, and who thus seemed relaxed and ready for triumphs.
* * * * *
ENGLISH CLASS
TRAVELERS
I
often feel like a traveler as I make my way through the English curriculum, and
yesterday, leafing through the dictionary, I discovered that the word “travel”
derives from “travail”, which originally grew out of the Latin word
“trepalium”, meaning “an instrument of torture”. Strange, that traveling originally meant
suffering – that getting from one place to another was initially connected with
trouble and tribulation. But perhaps it’s not so strange, at least when it
comes to English class, where my students sometimes stagger under the weight of
cumbersome novels and solemn essay assignments. Quite often, my course is plain
hard work – not torture, exactly, but seriously irksome labor. When we work our
way through a poem together, I sometimes picture my students as trekkers trying
out new trails on the sides of a mountain, huffing and puffing and praying for
it all to end. I’m sure my class sometimes feels like torture to the students,
but, oddly enough, there’s a good side to that word, too. When a guy says he’s
gone through torture because of his love for a woman, the torture is perhaps of
a sweet kind, like sailing successfully through a storm or ascending the far
peaks of the Rockies. Some torture is worth it. Reading King Lear is not
exactly a kick-up-your-heels kind of thing, but the rewards are generous, as I
hope they are in English class as we travel the often nameless and trying trails.
* * * * *
“VOMIT FULL OF BOOKES AND
PAPERS”
“Her vomit full of bookes and papers was.”
--Edmund
Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Book 1
Going
back through a bit of Spenser this morning, I came upon these lines and, oddly
enough, they brought to mind the tens of millions of students who have taken
English courses in high school and college. Surely many of them enjoyed the
“bookes and papers” they were required to read and write, but just as surely
many of them felt, upon finally graduating, that they’d like to gag and throw
up and leave it all behind. Why, I wonder, do so many English departments cram
students to the point of choking with literary works and writing assignments –
and what is their motivation? Do they think that shoving novels at students at
the rate of 50 or more pages per night will actually benefit them? Do they actually believe
that making students slog out stacks of literary essays every semester will produce people who enjoy
writing? Why do we compel our students to run a high-speed, frenzied marathon
of reading and writing in English class? Thoreau said that a great book should
be read about as slowly as the author wrote it, but many English departments,
as far as I can tell, have reversed his wise advice. Many of us seem more
interested in rapid reading and speedy writing than in the kind of measured and
carefully considered efforts that bring out the best in books and in students’
writing. If Thoreau were sitting
in an English class today, he might still be savoring the first few pages of Jane
Eyre when the teacher announces that Chapter 10 is due
tomorrow. As the years have
passed, I have tried, with modest success, to work against this crazed devotion
to haste. In my classes, we read as few books as possible as slowly as
possible. I’m more interested in how carefully the students read than in how
much they read. When I assign pages, I assume the students will read every
sentence, every word, with total attentiveness, and that they will examine and
re-examine the more bountiful sentences (of which there are many in any
significant literary work). Does
this mean I am failing to prepare the students for the sometimes hysterical
pace of higher-level classes? No doubt – but I console myself by remembering
that I am preparing them for higher-level devotion to deep reading and
insightful writing – the kind of reading and writing that fosters nourishment
rather than nausea.
* * * * *
STARTING FIRES
“He was early impassioned by ideas, and burned his
fire on those heights.”
--
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
When
I’m teaching a class, it sometimes suddenly comes to me that I’m doing Mickey Mouse
stuff – striking small matches for the students when I should be setting
serious fires. So often, my lessons seem to be about the little details of
English teaching – comma rules, participles, point of view, setting, and such.
I regularly find myself slogging with a class through the relative dreariness
of literary terminology and grammar guidelines, as the students slowly slip to
the wayside in drowsiness. I always have the best intentions when I’m planning
my curriculum, but as the weeks pass, the comparative unimportance of many of
my lessons becomes uncomfortably clear. Ideas are what English class should be mostly
focused on, not niceties like the ins and outs of punctuation rules. My students and I read stories and
poems packed with inspiration, and that’s the fire I should be fanning.
Certainly the technical aspects of English can’t be ignored, but most of my
teaching should be done on “those heights” where sizeable ideas can be set
aflame.
* * * * *
TALK AND TALKERS
“Talk
is fluid, tentative, continually “in further search and progress;” while
written words remain fixed, become idols even to the writer … and preserve
flies of obvious error in the amber of the truth.”
--Robert
Louis Stevenson, “Talk and Talkers”
It’s too bad a Pulitzer Prize isn’t given for
talking, because there’s something artistic and arresting about talking at its
best. On most days in English class I see this phenomenon – the full and
flowing creation of spoken words. The students and I talk from the moment we
enter class – words leading to other words, words pushing each other into
sentences, words roving out to the frontiers of fresh ideas. As Stevenson suggests, there’s nothing
stagnant or lackluster in spirited talk. When sincere students and their
teacher start sharing thoughts, who knows where the words will run or what new
borders they’ll cross. Thousands of words are spoken in every English class,
most of them filled full with the power of invention, most of them free and
ready for fun. It’s a good kind of creation. Of course, there’s also a kind of
talk that’s artificial and fairly useless – merely the motoring of idle minds.
Hopefully, that kind of chatter doesn’t happen often in my classes, but that
doesn’t mean I don’t want whimsy and flights of fancy in our discussions.
Talkers, by nature, are inventors, and inventors need the liberty to let loose.
* * * * *
AN ODD MIXTURE
“Her
thoughts generally were the oddest mixture of clear-eyed acumen and blind
dreams.”
--
George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss
As
a teacher, I hope my thoughts can be like Maggie Tulliver’s in Eliot’s novel –
a mishmash of realism and reverie. Certainly I must stay focused on the
everyday necessities of English teaching, but I never want to abandon my gift
for far-flung daydreaming and air-castle-building. Teaching, especially English
teaching, must be founded on both practicality and pipe-dreaming, both a
willingness to do the necessary step-by-step plodding and a keenness for
jumping off the edge into deep water. It’s my responsibility to teach the
proper procedures for punctuating a sentence, but it’s also my responsibility
to dream up daring lessons and
heroic assignments now and then.
I often wonder if some veteran English teachers find their days drifting
into tedium as the years pass – and if they do, I can recommend Maggie’s way of
thinking. We need to have at least
as many “blind dreams” as orderly lesson plans if we are to keep our teaching
infused with airiness and sparkle. When planning a lesson, perhaps we should
occasionally stretch out at night in the grass and give the stars the duty of
deciding how we proceed – or perhaps our 10-year-old child could choose
precisely what 9th graders would love to learn about the poems of
Emily Dickinson. Good teaching requires discipline and doggedness, but it also
requires a willingness to take wing now and then and shout to your students to
follow.
* * * * *
STAYING
As
the weeks of a school year pass, there are many classroom situations both my
students and I would like to escape from, including ramshackle lesson plans,
stifling air, and – sporadically – overpowering weariness. Occasionally in Room
2, we’re faced with conditions which seem to call for instant flight—times when
we’d all like to be anywhere but my classroom. Strangely enough, however, it’s
times like those when my students and I, if we’re watchful, can catch sight of
an important purpose of education - – learning how to stay instead of run. It’s a hard lesson to learn, for
running away from difficult conditions is a widespread custom among humans, but
in my small classroom in the country, perhaps I can offer some encouragement to
my students – and myself – to stand and fight rather than run and hide. There
are many situations in class that my students might surely call insufferable –
going over grammar guidelines for the zillionth time, listening to Mr. Salsich
explain yet again how to write a good closing paragraph, examining the crowded
infrastructure of a James Joyce short story. If I can demonstrate a quiet endurance
and open-mindedness when classroom conditions seem oppressive to me, perhaps my
students will be able to learn something about calmly “staying” when things
seem tiresome and everlasting to them. Staying is a vital skill for an English
student and teacher – staying with a written sentence until it’s transparent
and graceful, staying with a page in a novel until nothing’s left but the
wisdom of it, staying with a lesson plan until it rises above all the others
you’ve ever made. It takes serenity and persistence, two of the major qualities
of a flourishing adult, but this staying ability can be learned and loved,
including during English class.
* * * * *
MEETING
Having
just come from a faculty meeting, I’m now sitting in my empty classroom
thinking about the whole idea of meetings. When I meet people, or with people,
I come into their presence – and the word “presence” seems significant
there. Truly being in the presence
of a group of people means being totally there with them—in their company, in their
circle or set. You might say I belong with them. The word “presence” derives
from the Latin word for “being”, which suggests that if I wish to be truly
present with a group, I should
actually be there with them – body, mind, and heart – not miles away on the
flights of daydream and reverie. Instead of going over innumerable mental tasks
in my head during a meeting – to-do’s, wants, regrets, shoulda’s, woulda’s,
coulda’s—I should actually be present
at the meeting – totally, ardently, actively. Unfortunately, I was far from present at today’s faculty
meeting. I might as well have been on a mountain peak in Peru. My body was
there in its pink shirt and blue bow tie, but my mind and heart were drifting
around the universe somewhere. I wasted my time and slighted my colleagues. It
makes me wonder how often I’ve met with students in class but actually been
far-gone on desires and dreams. Maybe some folks should get their money back.
*
* * * *
LIKE
ROSES
“… [as]
unobtrusive as the wafted odor of roses.”
--
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
I’ve slowly come to
the conclusion that I’m against pushing of almost any kind, including the kind
I used to do as a teacher. In the early years of my career, I was very much
into pushing kids into becoming successful English students. I guess I pictured
myself as something like a heavy equipment operator, my job being to
figuratively move, shove, pull, thrust, and impel my students to achieve the goals
of the syllabus. I was a pusher of the first order. Everything I did in the
classroom resembled snowplowing more than genuine teaching. A teacher who constantly
pushes his students is an obtrusive teacher – one who unceremoniously
encroaches upon the students instead of just unpretentiously teaching
them. I was an insolent, bad-mannered
teacher, in the sense that I didn’t much care what the kids were feeling or
thinking; I had a syllabus to teach, and everything else be damned. I was an intruder rather than a
teacher. Luckily, it’s different nowadays. I was struck this morning by the
passage from Eliot above, because now, in my 42nd year of teaching,
I guess I try to teach by wafting rather
than pushing. I think more good
things happen in the universe by drifting,
floating, gliding, or hovering, than by goading and ramming – and so I try to
teach like the universe acts. The lessons I want to teach will have a far
greater effect if they sort of inconspicuously float into the students’ lives
instead of battering and pummeling them. I’d like them to come to understand a
poem the way they might slowly but surely come to take pleasure in the ambiance
of a forest, almost without knowing they’re doing it. I’d like the teacher in
Room 2 to be as unobtrusive as a breeze that, while it goes largely unnoticed,
unassumingly does exactly what it’s designed to do.
* * * * *
QUIETISM IN ROOM 2
I
am not a Christian or a church-going person of any type, but I might still be
called a “quietist”, at least in my teaching. “Quietism” was a 17th
century Christian movement that encouraged the abandonment of personal will and
the quiet acceptance of the way things are, which fairly accurately describes
my approach to teaching. As my 40+ years in the classroom have passed, my individual
will has continued to slip more and more to the wayside, leaving mostly just an
inquisitive interest in what’s going to happen next. I guess I’ve slowly come
to realize that, even after all these years, my pocket-sized personal wisdom
tells me very little about the real truths of teaching. I’ve learned, too, that
there’s another kind of wisdom, an immense kind, that knows everything about teaching, and that I
may as well put my little self aside and let that wisdom do its good work. I’m not talking here about God or some
mysterious supernatural power – just about opening myself up to the wisdom that
awaits people who, like the Quietists, finally get their private egos, or
wills, out of the way. The education of a human being is a bizarre and bottomless
task, and to pretend that I can manipulate it with my own fierce but measly
will is the height of craziness. To resist any pedagogical methods except those
that I personally like, and to accept only results that I privately sketch out,
is mind-boggling foolishness. Instead, these days I quietly listen for
understanding as I work through the daily lessons. I try to be more accepting
of the countless educational miracles that happen in my classes, most of which
I didn’t (and couldn’t possibly) plan for. I hope to gradually understand that
being humbly attentive to what’s actually happening is sometimes better than
being confidently single-minded about what I
want to happen.
* * * * *
SILENT SPEAKING
As
a teacher, I have to remember that speech doesn’t always have to be spoken.
There are times during class when, though my students are silent and seemingly
impassive, the expression on their faces speaks a clear message of quiet
interest. It’s like sunlight shining behind a motionless screen of trees: you
know it’s there, silent but staying strong in the background. At times, a
visitor might think my students are thoroughly uninterested (and at times they definitely are), but I can sometimes almost hear
the concealed voice of curiosity in their soundless faces. Many teenage
students, when they’re in class, are like trees on windless days. The limbs and
leaves move only slightly and almost indiscernibly, and the students’ voices
are hushed, as if both trees and kids are sleeping – but all the while immeasurable
forces are flowing underneath. Sometimes I walk among the taciturn scholars
like I’m strolling in the park. I enjoy the company of quiet, beautiful trees
and wise, silent children – and I listen for what both of them are saying.
* * * * *
SEIZURES IN ENGLISH
CLASS
Here’s
one of the best compliments my students could offer me: “That was a surprising
class, Mr. Salsich.” Surprises have always had magical power for me, the way
they can suddenly blow apart a lackluster moment into something stunning. I’ll
be floating along the supposedly tedious river of my life when, out of the
blue, a surprise alters everything. It might be true for most of us: surprises
(at least the good ones) can transform dullness into delight. Since my English
class constantly leans dangerously close to dreariness, I’m always hopeful that
surprises will occasionally seize the young students. Interestingly, the word
“surprise” derives from the Latin word for “seize”, as in “The enemy forces
surprised (i.e., seized) the castle.” I like to picture my students sitting
impassively in Room 2 when, with great suddenness, a line in a poem or a phrase
in a story takes unexpected hold of them. I picture them looking at me in
stunned surprise, as if to say, “Help, Mr. Salsich! Something has seized me!”
Certainly I would rush to their aid (in my best senior citizen manner) if a
human intruder tried to get hold of them, but a literary prowler is more than
welcome - -the kind that pounces on and reshuffles minds and hearts.
* * * * *
WAVING, READING, AND
WRITING
It
occurred to me this afternoon that waving
is what my students and I should be doing more of in English class. I was
sitting in a friend’s house, watching some tall trees waving in the wind, and I
was impressed with how stress-free they seemed as they swayed and slanted this
way and that. They were waving the
way waves in the ocean do – with total spontaneity and ease. Of course,
sometimes, as the wind strayed away, they came to rest for a few moments, and
their rest also seemed simple and trouble-free. Watching from the window, I
realized that my students and I could learn a lesson from these compliant
trees. We are all faced with the inconstant winds of responsibilities,
assignments, schedules, successes, and disillusionments, and our best approach
is to adjust ourselves to their quirks and foibles. We need to bend and bow,
not diffidently but daringly, like the trees that lean almost, but not quite,
to cracking. When we’re reading,
we must flow with the waving of the words, getting lost sometimes in the
movements of phrases and paragraphs. When we’re writing, our thoughts blow
strong and soft, blustery and easygoing, and our best bet is to tag along
behind, doing what they do, writing the words they declare. It’s interesting, too, to think of
another meaning for “wave” – that motion of our arms and hands that signals
hello or goodbye. Sometimes I wave to my students as they leave the classroom,
a small gesture to show, perhaps, that I like to live like trees do. My arm
waves back and forth like life moves in waves all day long, in English class
and out.
.
* * * * *
A MEAGER LITTLE MIND
“Will was his guide … “
-- Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queenen
Like
Spenser’s Red Cross Knight, who gets into trouble when he lets his will guide
him, it’s obvious to me that using my headstrong, badly informed will as a
teaching guide has usually led me down dead-end, and sometimes ruinous,
streets. I’ve often been on my
high horse as a teacher, galloping wherever my stubborn resolve sends me,
usually ignoring any greater wisdom than my own undersized knowledge of how
things should be. More often than not, I let the reins on my will go slack and
it careers wherever it wishes through lessons and curriculums. You might ask
what else there is for a teacher to follow than his own personal will- power
and determination, his own good thinking, and I would answer by quoting a sign
often seen at Alcoholics Anonymous meetings: My best thinking got me here. To be honest, I’ve learned from experience that my best
personal thinking is about as impressive as a small pile of soil beside the
mountains of the West. All the scrapes
and troubles of my life have been caused by following the leadership of my
finest thoughts. They’ve led me with bold words and bright signals, and usually
I’ve ended up in a morass that seemed strangely similar to where I started. So
no, I don’t trust my own thinking or my own supposedly sensible free will, and
yes, there is a better way. There’s an extensive and good-natured spirit of
wisdom always around us, and I’ve been trying to stay open to it, instead of to
my closed-off and insufficient personal thoughts. Clouds follow the weather
patterns wherever they lead, and I guess I’m trying to follow the movements of
a larger wisdom instead of my fairly meager little mind.
* * * * *
TRUSTING TOTS AND
TEENS
“Those
who trust us educate us.”
--
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
I
imagine teenage students are somewhat stunned whenever they come upon a teacher
who actually trusts them. In their often shaky relations with teachers (and most
adults), the kids probably receive genuine trust from their distrustful
instructors only intermittently. Adolescent students are most likely thought of
more often as prospective offenders than promising scholars, which is why many
of us teachers tie them securely to rules and regulations rather than releasing
them to their innate sense of responsibility and correctness. We don’t trust
the students because we fear what might come to pass if we did. I’m no different than most, being
usually a little leery of adolescent craziness blossoming in the classroom when
my back is turned. However, I’m slowly learning to care for my students the way
I cared for my four children when they were learning to walk – by trusting that
they can and will do what’s required of them.
When they were ready to unsteadily try their first steps, I had to trust that
they could and would do it. I had to stand aside and consent to their right to
be their own little best selves and perhaps fail gallantly. There were many
failures, of course, just as there are occasional failures when I trust my
students. They sometimes slide off into youthful madness and disregard, for
which they receive just consequences, and from which they learn of the sting
that comes from mistreating a teacher’s trust. Like my children, however, the
students continue to receive my trust, for how else can they continue striding
– or staggering – toward trustworthy adulthood?
* * * * *
WANTED: DISPOSABLE
DIAPERS FOR ENGLISH CLASS
After
a hard day’s labor in the classroom, I sometimes wonder how long it will take
for my carefully planned lessons to utterly vanish from my students’ minds.
Will some of them disappear from their lives as fast as short-lived spring
breezes? Will some last only as long as the shapes of clouds, which fade away
almost as fast as they form? Or, if I’m lucky, will some lessons be as enduring
as banana peels, which experts tell us take up to five weeks to decompose? It’s
an honest question to ask when you’re teaching teenagers, whose lives transform
as swiftly as weather patterns. I spend many hours each week painstakingly
preparing what I believe are significant lesson plans, but, in my more
skeptical moments, I think I may as well be preparing bubbles to blow into the
breeze. As Emily Dickinson would know, my students’ brains are “wider than the
sky”, providing plenty of room for my diminutive lesson plans to drift out,
pop, and pass away. However, there may be hope. Scanning the Internet this
morning, I came upon the fact that disposable diapers take upwards of 500 years to decompose. If diapers can
withstand the years, why not lessons on symbolism and semicolons? Perhaps,
without my realizing it, the lessons I share with my students each day settle
inside them like diapers at the dump, silently persisting, refusing to go away.
Perhaps years from, even generations from now, the remnants of a lesson on
using participles may give off steam enough to set some future life in a fresh
direction.
*
* * * *
LISTEN
AWHILE
Listen
awhile, ye [teacher], and be dumb.”
Keats,
“Addressed to the Same”
I
took the liberty of replacing “nations” with “teacher” in the above lines,
because as a teacher of teenagers, I do have to learn to “listen awhile”, and
perhaps “be dumb”, meaning silent and fascinated, a little more often. I think of my students when I read the
first line – “these” meaning the feisty, foolhardy, wise, and cunning kids I am
fortunate to spend some time with each day. They may frustrate me with their
stretches of impassive silence and bewildering craziness, but I have no doubt
that, as the years pass, they will indeed “give the world another heart.” I may
be in charge of my students now, but in the future, it is they who will provide
the “pulses” for the life of humankind. I need to simply shut up more often
during class and listen for the early “hum” of those pulses. It’s sadly true
that I get so busy with my ten thousand school day tasks and responsibilities
that I miss many chances to catch the interesting buzzings of my students’
thoughts. There are “mighty
workings” going on in the minds of each of my students (to doubt that would be
the height of either smugness or blindness), and I need to stand back and stay
silent more often, listening respectfully to the youth of our world. “They’re
just kids”, someone may say, and I would say, “Yes, and a sunrise is just a
sunrise.” A new day dawns for humanity tomorrow and ten years from now, and
these restless and perceptive kids in my classroom will help lift whatever kind
of sun rises.
* *
* * *
TRAFFIC
AND TEACHING
For
my morning workout today, I walked the hilly street near my house, and the
relentless rush-hour traffic reminded me of the mayhem I sometimes make for
myself in my work as an English teacher.
The cars were rushing past me in a noisy hubbub, as if each driver was
desperate to reach some special destination, and I occasionally see some of
that desperation in my teaching. The cars were speeding up and down the hill
the way I tear through topics in a lesson plan every now and then, as though
just touching a topic is the same as teaching it. Like breakneck driving, that
kind of hasty teaching makes no sense to me. This morning I felt for the
drivers as they dashed who knows where, because I know what it’s like to get
awestruck by speed: how fast can I do this
lesson, how many stories can we read this semester, how many literary terms can
we look at today, how many pages of this novel can I read tonight?
Thankfully, I’m usually a reasonably undisturbed teacher, preferring
purposefulness to haste and hurry, so the speediness trap doesn’t catch me too
often. Unlike the cars this morning, I’d rather linger and hang back with my
students. Reading and writing, after all, are chores of thoughtfulness and
attention, not speed and tumult.
* * * * *
ANOTHER CAUSE FOR
HUMILITY
Today,
as I was driving to school, I misinterpreted something I saw, a mistake that
happens to me way too often in the classroom. I was on the highway in the
bright sunshine, when I saw, far ahead, what looked like cars coming straight
for me. For a few seconds I was concerned, but I quickly saw that the sun was
simply glancing off the backs of cars, making the light look like headlights
heading my way. In reality, the stream of cars was proceeding precisely as it
should. I wondered, as I continued driving, how often I have totally
misconstrued events in the classroom. When I thought a boy seemed bored with
the book we were discussing, was a shy enthusiasm, in fact, shining inside him?
When I thought I had been a fairly effective teacher in a class, were the kids,
in fact, riding miles away on daydreams?
As I’ve known in my heart for years, and re-learned today, I very often
have no truthful idea what’s happening right in front of my eyes. It’s another
cause for humility. All I can do is look again, and then again, and hope the
truth will somehow slip past my hasty and imperfect judgments.
* * * * *
LIGHT-HEARTED
TEACHING
I
sometimes think of balloons when I consider the kind of teacher I’d like to be.
Teaching adolescents is serious business, but still, shouldn’t there be
something blithe and bouncy about it, something as light-hearted as
balloons? I often walk around
school like I’m bearing an enormous burden of some sort, as if the entire weight
of my students’ academic lives is sitting squarely on my shoulders, but in
reality (if only I could remember it), that weight is as buoyant as a balloon.
All I need is for a group of friendly, free-and-easy students to sprint past me
to the playing fields to remind me of how wispy and insubstantial my
responsibilities actually are. I’d be a better teacher if, instead of
presenting myself to my students as a slumped over carrier of grave duties, I
raised myself up and showed some of the grace and frothiness that lucky people should display. Of all the working
people in the world, I am among the most fortunate, having only to share my
love of language, literature, and life itself with blossoming, rousing
teenagers in order to earn a paycheck. What’s weighty about that? What kind of
cumbersome burden is that? If the students don’t master the use of gerunds at
the age of 14, will that threaten their futures? If they finish my course with
just a slender understanding of symbolism in The Tempest, will they slip
backwards in the only significant race, the one to satisfaction and
self-possession? As a teacher, I hope to be more like a balloon than a
battering ram, more light-hearted than heavy-handed. The students don’t need my
nagging as much as they need my help in rising above the kinks and snarls of novels
and the frustrations of essay writing – rising up and getting freer and
freer.
* * * * *
A CHILDLIKE TEACHER
My
goal, as I move through my fifth decade as a teacher of teenagers, is to
gradually become more like a child in the classroom. We adults progressively
become very different people from what we were as children, but different
doesn’t necessarily mean better. We know more, earn more, own more, and can do
more than children, but that doesn’t mean we are happier or more successful
than children. I certainly don’t want to regress back to my silly, childish
days, but I wouldn’t mind recapturing some of the spontaneous and guileless
ways of childhood, for I feel it would make me a better teacher. I wouldn’t
even mind being known as a naïve
teacher, if by that is meant natural and unaffected. Children are naïve, in
part, because they haven’t yet learned the ways of artifice and haughtiness.
They’re sincere and bright, not slick and clever like so many of us adults. A
little childlike naïveté might make me a more instinctive and unrestrained
teacher, with less posing and masquerading and more old-fashioned genuineness.
Perhaps, if I regained some of my 6-year-oldness, I might be somewhat less
suspicious in the classroom. Instead of wondering what the kids are doing
behind my back or what anti-teacher thoughts they’re thinking, I might start
noticing the best of their qualities more often than the worst. I might
consistently expect goodness in Room 2 rather than always snooping around for
duplicity and disruption. It wouldn’t be bad to be like a kid as I stand at the
front of the room – uninhibited, without airs, and trusting. I have no hair on
my head and only folds and rumples on my face, but in my heart it could be
always early spring. I could even whistle, or do a hop and skip now and then.
* * * * *
OUTWARD AND UPWARD
In
my work as a middle school English teacher, I often find myself looking inward
and downward, when I probably should be looking outward and upward. On those
days when I’m looking inward, I’m almost obsessively focused on how I am
feeling, how I am doing as a teacher, what I should be doing next
– and when I’m looking downward, I’m seeing only the comparatively minuscule small,
lesson I’m trying to teach. If I were a cartoonist, I would draw
myself, on those narrow, introverted days, with my head turned completely down
toward my chest, as if I were trying to see inside myself. The students and the grand,
far-reaching world are somewhere in front of me, but I’m seeing only the
constricted confines of a tiny self and a single modest lesson plan. Sadly,
because I see only a very small picture on those days, I miss another picture
that’s actually immeasurable in scope. If I could look a little more outward, I
might actually see my full-of-life students in all their inimitability, and if
I turned my gaze upward, I could perhaps catch sight of the immense overall
landscape of this educational process we’re all engaged in. It would be like
climbing a tree to see the unbroken countryside, instead of sitting at the
bottom with my head in my arms. This reminds me, actually, of my tree-climbing
days as a kid—days when I was never satisfied with a slim, limited view of
things. As a 12-year-old, turning inward and downward would have seemed utterly
foolish, because, for me, the vast, unrolling prairie of my young life required
going outside and getting up high. I was nearly always heading out and climbing
skyward, nestled in tree branches or on high hills, seeing the vistas.
Unfortunately, there are no trees in my classroom, but there are other ways to
turn away from my skimpy self and see what the wide world in Room 2 looks like.
* *
* * *
ENGLISH
CLASS GOGGLES
I
sometimes wish I had a pair of special goggles that I could wear during those
occasional times when I’m a thoroughly unperceptive teacher. With the magic goggles,
I could see what’s been directly in front of my eyes, but which I’ve missed
because of a strange kind of sporadic loss of awareness. During those myopic
periods of teaching, what I see in front of me in the classroom seems to be
nothing more than a group of mildly interesting but essentially similar
teenagers, kids who do my assignments with some degree of success and are
somewhat obedient and dutiful. If you notice a lack of excitement in that
description, it’s due to my periodic partial blindness: I simply don’t see the
miracles that are my students. I might even offhandedly say, “Hey, they’re just
a bunch of typical kids,” which is exactly why I could use the magic goggles –
so I could see that typical is the opposite of what they are. If I put on the
goggles, perhaps I would see the group of incomparable creations of the
universe sitting before me. Maybe I would notice their uniqueness, their gifts
and flairs, their untried and unpolished magnificence. Of course, if I were a
truly wise man, I wouldn’t need miraculous goggles, for I would know that no group of people is only “mildly
interesting” or “essentially similar”, least of all a group of freshly
blossoming adolescents. I would
feel fortunate, indeed privileged, to be in the same classroom with my
students, lucky to be considered worthy of being one of their teachers, blessed
to be lending a hand in bringing these up-and-coming citizens to the doors of
their future.
* * * * *
RECEIVING AND GIVING
I
spend much of my classroom time giving ideas to my students, and I try to be a
glad and generous giver. Why not, since the ideas were generously given to me?
Why shouldn’t I turn right around and happily bestow on my students the ideas
that were freely bestowed on me? I didn’t work for my ideas, or discover them,
or unearth them, or spend precious time laboring to construct them, so why
should I hoard them as though they are mine? The ideas I give to my students
are no more mine than the wind and sky. They came to me casually the way days
come along, and I, in turn, pass them along to my students. I find it odd that
I sometimes fall under the spell of believing that I personally make, and
therefore own, ideas – as though there’s a small idea-generating factory in my
head that I personally supervise.
When I fall into this dazed mindset, it’s usually not long before I come
to my senses and remember that all the ideas I call mine actually first came to
me as visitors. In their endless
history, these rootless, roving ideas (which is what all ideas are) had
previously visited, in one set of clothes or another, zillions of other
thinkers, and now they came to me – out of nowhere, you might say. If I welcome the ideas and invite them
to stay while (and often I don’t), they mix and socialize with other visiting
ideas inside me, and thus are transformed somewhat before they pass along to
other people (perhaps students) with whom I cone in contact. It’s an
everlasting procession of mental visitors – ideas of all shapes and sizes
strolling through the world and rapping on the doors of our lives. I just
happen to be lucky enough to bestow, in my turn, a few of them on some ready
and receptive teenagers each day.
*
* * * *
A
GAME OF UNCERTAINTY
After four decades
in the classroom, teaching English has become more and more like a fairly
free-wheeling game to me. Of course, as with any game, there’s considerable
uncertainty involved day by day. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose; sometimes
there’s steadiness and peace, sometimes there’s disarray and struggle. On any
day, my lessons could come together into enlightenment or fall apart into
failure. Uncertainty is at the center of all satisfying games, and in the midst
of a given English class, uncertainty reigns. I never know: Are the students
learning anything? Will this lesson crack into bits and pieces in the next few
minutes? Will the sleepy kids sigh with relief when the period ends? Or … will this become one of my finest teaching moments? Will the
principal pass by and praise the learning that’s radiating from my room? Truly,
when I’m teaching, I sometimes feel like I did when I played high school
football, flinging my self around the field in happy abandon. I don’t do any
flinging in Room 2, but there’s a certain amount of abandon and inhibition in
my teaching, just as there was in my football days. If you’re going to play a
game – football or teaching – you have to accept, and love, the rowdy
uncertainty of it all.
* *
* * *
COMING
HOME, IN BASEBALL AND ENGLISH CLASS
Now
that baseball season is approaching, I’ve been wondering where “home” is in
English class. In baseball, home is the place the players try to get to, the
ultimate destination, the goal that means a team is closer to winning the game.
It’s interesting that home is also the place where a batter starts from, so
coming home means he has been successful mainly because he is back where he began. In a sense, he’s made absolutely no
progress, and because of that, he has accomplished precisely what he desired.
As I’ve been thinking about it, it’s occurred to me that, in English class, the
students sometimes succeed in a similar way – by, you might say, making no
progress and ending exactly where they began. In writing, as they approach the final words, they try to
find their way back to the beginning of the piece in order to remind the reader
of the overall point. At the very
end of the writing, they come home again to the main idea, which is exactly
where they started. (Perhaps they hear in their minds their teacher cheering as
they make it home.) In daily lessons, too, I try to lead the students home
again at the end of class, bringing them back to where we started, rounding the
lesson into a finished circle. In May and June, the yearly curriculum also, I
hope, leads the kids home as we review the year, going back to topics we
started in the fall and winter. We journey far each year in our exploration of
English topics, but it’s important that we come back home at the end, just to
take a breath and admire the distance we traveled. Of course, in one sense, we do make progress through the year, the
students and I, but perhaps it’s the kind of progress the hero makes in the
fairy tale about the man who journeys far and wide in search of a treasure,
only to return home and find it in his own backyard. We discover new talents
and insights as the months pass, but maybe, in an odd sort of way, the talents
and insights have been with us all along, and we uncover them in English class
by simply coming home, again and again, to our best selves.
* * * * *
HARMONY NOT
UNDERSTOOD
“All
Nature is but Art, unknown to thee;
All
chance, direction, which thou canst not see
All
discord, harmony not understood.”
n Alexander Pope, “An Essay on
Man”
I’ve been teaching for many years,
but sometimes, even now, I get the peculiar feeling that I understand almost
nothing about my work – which is why I was especially struck this morning by
this quote from Pope. Even after four decades in the classroom, in spite of
everything I’ve supposedly learned about my profession, I often feel that
teaching is an “Art unknown” to me. It seems, at times, so chancy and
haphazard, as if there’s no direction to it, or at least none that I can see.
Despite all my carefully designed lesson plans, I occasionally feel like I’m in
the dark with a thoroughly insignificant flashlight, just hoping I might
occasionally search out a truth about teaching. Strangely, though, this doesn’t discourage me. In fact, it’s
actually exciting to realize, more and more clearly, that the art and science
of teaching is far too immense and obscure for any one person to fully
understand. I’m gradually taking in the fact that that this enterprise I’ve
been involved in all these years is as vast and incomprehensible as the Grand
Canyon, and who wouldn’t be happy to spend 40+ years surrounded by such
splendor? Places like the Grand Canyon are majestic because of their mystery,
and since nothing in my experience is more mysterious than the teaching of teenagers,
there must be majesty in the work I’m lucky to be doing. Going back to Pope, if
there seems to be discord in my teaching now and then, maybe that’s only
because I can’t make out the hidden harmony that’s behind it all. If there
appears to be disarray and confusion, perhaps it’s because I simply can’t see
the suitable and steady direction in which my students and I are moving. Were I
hiking through the Grand Canyon, I wouldn’t be worried because I couldn’t fully
(or even partially) comprehend the mysteries of its grandeur. In a way, my
ignorance is my bliss – and so it is in teaching.
* * * * *
DUMBFOUNDED, STUPEFIED, DAZED
I’ve often thought (and written)
about the role that surprises play in good teaching and learning, and this
morning I started wondering whether my students and I could purposely search
for surprises. Could we set out, at the start of each class, to discover as
many surprises as possible? Could
it be a sort of magical quest each day: Who
can find the most interesting surprise in this poem or story? If we did
this, maybe we would find ourselves using words related to “surprise”. We might
say that a sentence in a story came as a shock
to us, or that the final paragraph in an essay was a total bombshell. Someone might say he was staggered to discover a totally new
meaning in a line of poetry, and a girl might tell us she is thoroughly flabbergasted by the current writing
assignment. Maybe a chapter in a novel will take
us by surprise or catch us off guard or catch us red-handed. Who knows, we
might spend an entire class period in utter bewilderment
as we try to find our way through some Emily Dickinson poems. We might have rude awakenings day after day as we explore The Tempest.
Ariel, in the play, says he “flamed amazement” around the ship carrying
Prospero’s enemies, and perhaps I need to send my students (and myself) on a
search for some of those flames in every English class. We could search our
books and writings for surprises that leave us open-mouthed,
dumbfounded, stupefied, dazed, taken aback, shaken up, and floored.
* *
* * *
RISING
AND SURGING RESOURCES
We’re
dealing with some serious flooding in southern New England these days – rivers
are “rising and surging”, as one resident put it – and this morning, leafing
through a dictionary, I happened to come upon the word “resource”, and was
surprised to discover that its origin is the old French resourdre, meaning “rise again”, which is in turn based
on the Latin surgere, which means “to
rise”. This didn’t suggest to me that our current floods are
actually a resource for us, but it did set me thinking about one particular
resource my students and I have in our work in English class. It may be a more
powerful resource than we have imagined, a resource that actually does rise and
surge through our lives in transforming ways. I’m referring, of course, to our
ability to think, an ability that, in
many ways, is stronger and more forceful than springtime floods. My students
and I have far more thoughts available to us than we realize – thoughts that,
you might say, are constantly rising like rivers. This resource is available to us instantly and abundantly,
flowing through us with an almost reckless lack of restraint. What’s odd is
that my students and I sometimes actually don’t see, or believe in, this
overflowing mental resource. It’s as if, standing beside the flooded river in
my small Rhode Island town and watching the water surge wildly along, we were
to calmly say, “Where’s the flood? Where’s the rising, surging river?” The
truth is that it’s in our minds, all
the time—thoughts ceaselessly flowing like the finest resource, but sometimes,
I fear, they flood through my classroom largely unnoticed.
* * * * *
THE ART OF LINGERING
There
are many arts I should be teaching my students – the art of writing paragraphs,
the art of punctuating properly, the art of reading with awareness – but I
sometimes forget to teach the art of lingering. In our madcap, breakneck world,
lingering has long ago become a lost art, and I need to bring its significance
and usefulness to the attention of my students. They need to learn that dawdling
can be a highly creative act, and that loitering can lead to learning of the
highest order. The beautiful truths available to teenagers (or anyone) don’t
reveal themselves to hastiness, but only to long-drawn-out attentiveness. The kids, I’m afraid, are accustomed to
rushing through just about every task, but that simply doesn’t work when you’re
exploring a Shakespeare sonnet or writing a weighty and well-designed essay. I
must help them learn to linger lovingly over a phrase of Shakespeare’s, and to
dawdle among their own sentences in a search for possible fine-tuning and
refinement. They must learn to wait quietly in the middle of a poem, reading
the words over and over, passing the time until a truth materializes from out
of the lines. I must help them see
the delight that can come from dallying in a chapter of a Dickens novel --
doubling back to some favorite sentences, savoring a paragraph for a full
fifteen minutes, tarrying on the last page, hoping the chapter will never end.
Rushing, I guess, will get us places faster, but faster doesn’t make it in my
English class. A book-loving, word-loving tortoise would get a higher grade
than any hare.
* *
* * *
BASKING
IN WRITING
I
spent some time basking in the sun this past weekend, and this week in English
class I plan to encourage my students to bask in their own writing. Basking in the spring sunshine
(especially after weeks of storms) requires no effort, and in a way, neither
does basking in sentences and paragraphs. In the warm, late-afternoon light on
Sunday, I simply sat in a chair and allowed the sun to do its munificent work,
and tomorrow in class I will ask my students to just stay silent in the center
of some of their writing, letting its allure linger around them. We can’t rush
the enjoyment of sunshine, and neither can we rush the appreciation of written
words. The students need to sprawl a little in the middle of their first
drafts, feeling the overall motifs and perhaps sensing new forms and directions
their sentences might take. They need to luxuriate in their own writing,
perhaps loll in it, as I did in the surprising sunshine. Only then can they
feel the full force of what they’ve written, and only then can they find new
ways to spruce up their writing, like the April sun somewhat refurbished my
life this weekend.
* * * * *
TRANSFORMING LIVES
In
The Tempest, lives are magically
transformed, and, in my more idealistic moments, I like to think English class
can do the same for my students.
As one example, I hope each poem and story we read will contribute to at
least a partial overhaul of the students’ ideas and feelings. I want the reading and study of
literature to be like taking a steaming, soapy shower. It may sound naïve, but
I’d like them to emerge from each book as bright, brand new, newly-enlightened
learners. Who knows – a student may come to class caught in severe depression,
but leave with a light around him after studying a poem by Keats. A girl may
get her life up and running after reading Great
Expectations, and a boy might lift up his days through an attentive
exploration of some Jack London stories. I recall countless times when a poem
or a paragraph enabled me to turn my day in a totally new direction, and I
hope, optimistically, that the same can happen for my teenage students. Lord knows my students are not wretched
kids who need a complete makeover, but all of us enjoy renovating and reshaping
our lives now and then, and literature is one of the greatest transforming
agents of all. You can enter a Shakespeare play as a cantankerous quitter, and
emerge from Act 5 as a bright and breezy idealist. Just the other day, I
thought I noticed a satisfied smile on a girl’s face after reading some poems
by William Stafford – this from a girl who usually seems to live under sinister
clouds. She was transformed, if
only for a few moments, not by expensive possessions or a pill, but by a poet
she came across in English class.
*
* * * *
TAKING
CARE OF MINDS
As
their English teacher, I try to encourage my students to take good care of
their minds. I’m sure countless people have advised them to take care of their
bodies, but what about protection and provision for their minds? A mind can
fall into shabbiness and disorder as easily as a body, and a kind of cancer can
grow among thoughts just as surely as among tissues and organs. Like all of us,
students should be devoted to the health and wellbeing of their minds, and I
try to help them in that endeavor.
For instance, I force them to rigorously exercise their mind, just as
their athletic coaches put them through their physical paces on the field and
court. I push them through seemingly
inscrutable poems and tangled stories, making them, now and then, think
themselves into exhaustion. I hope they’re gasping for their mental breath when
a class period ends. I also try to
feed their minds only the healthiest foods during English class. We read the
finest literature I can find – books that will bring stimulation and
nourishment to their minds. No
fast-food poems, no take-out stories, no drive-through novels – only the kind
of illuminated literature that will let a shaft of healthful light into their
young minds. Of course, I also have to help them learn to bar their mental
doors to thoughts that can be unwholesome during English class. Like all of us,
stray ideas steadily pass through their minds, and during an exhausting class
inspection of a Faulkner short story, some of my students are surely tempted to
welcome a roving daydream or two, whatever it might bring, as long as it’s
something besides Faulkner. My job is to encourage them to be sentries at the
doors of their minds, to stand guard at the entrances, permitting only thoughts
fitting for the topic. I want them to be free thinkers but also stern coaches
and trainers of their brains. I want them to leave each English class feeling
like their minds are more hale and hearty than ever.
* * *
* *
STAYING
AWAKE IN ENGLISH CLASS
I often feel like playing a recording
of reveille at the start of English class, just to rouse the students -- and me
-- into some kind of wakefulness. I include myself in that statement because I
am often just as unconscious as the kids often are – just as robotic, just as
programmed, just as far away in my own preoccupied absentmindedness. I
always plan a careful lesson for each class, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be
lost in a professional daze of sorts. My thoughts run like a teacher-machine
throughout the school day, and I often need to be awakened to the fact that
out-of-the-ordinary, mystifying, and relatively untamed teenage human beings
are sitting in front of me, and that brilliant pieces of literature are under
investigation. I also have to constantly bestir my students and myself to be
sure we are staying observant for the messages and signals sent up from stories
and poems. Like a sergeant rousing his sleepy soldiers on the front lines, I
prowl among the students for the full 48 minutes, keeping them, and me,
watchful for flares of new thoughts and bursts of surprising ideas. I verbally
poke and prod all of us: stay awake,
something’s coming, be ready.
* *
* * *
A
PLAY-ACTING TEACHER
Over
the years, I have grown ever more pleased to call myself a play-acting
teacher. That’s sounds a bit
shocking, perhaps, but it’s the plain truth about me. In the classroom, I’m
simply an actor. I wear one mask after another, and I’m glad that I’ve
gradually come to accept that fact. What I’ve slowly been able to realize is
that we all wear masks all the time. The real “us” is somewhere
far beneath (or above) all the many roles we play, including husband, friend,
worker, mother, or teacher. Each day we frequently change masks, depending on
what part we are playing at the time, while the power behind the mask quietly
abides in the background. Years ago I would have fervently denied this,
thinking of it as pure deceit, but nowadays I accept this ceaseless
role-playing as the way things really are – and I’m happy they are. It’s been
fun to finally understand that teaching should be regarded more as a pastime
than a skirmish, more as a fascinating stage play than a life-or-death endeavor.
I take my teaching seriously, but I also take it lightly and humorously. I
realize that, in the big picture, what life is all about is not commas and
symbolism and Ernest Hemingway short stories, but something far deeper than
that, something hidden beneath the mask and costume called “student” and
“teacher”. I do my best to play my role as a teacher (just as I do with my many
other roles), but I know that the real force behind the role is way bigger and
more interesting than a 68-year-old dramatic character called “Mr. Salsich”.
The actor playing that character, and all of my countless characters, is life
itself. I wear the masks; life (or maybe Life) does the work – or perhaps I
should say the playing.
* * * * *
TRANSFORMATION IN
ROOM 2
When
things in my English classes seem fairly monotonous, it helps me to recall
that, actually, monotony is not possible – not in my classroom, and not anywhere
else. Monotony involves a lack of variety, but the truth is that all of life,
all of reality, is filled with the rowdiest kind of variety. Every present
moment is utterly unmarked and up-to-the-minute, as different from every other
moment as one person is from another. Nothing old, nothing the same, ever
happens; only the new-fangled and fresh come into existence each instant. My
classroom, filled with its tired-looking teens, is actually
a hot-bed of constant transformation – newness being
re-assembled every second. The students’ zillion cells are relentlessly
re-shaping themselves – changing, adjusting, modifying, dying, being born.
Jimmy in the second row is a brand-new Jimmy every second – new thoughts, new
feelings, millions of new cells. A river changes every moment, but no faster
than the life in my classroom. Even when the kids seem on the threshold of
sleep, when all appears to be tedium and tiredness -- even then, their bodies,
the air around them, the world outside, the far-flung stars, are in a state of
splendid transformation. It can’t be stopped. No matter how sleepy my classroom
seems, it’s actually an extravaganza of makeovers and renovations. I should be
in a state of continuous astonishment just to be in the presence of such
ceaseless stir and bustle.
* *
* * *
NOBLE
HEARTS
“The noble Heart, that harbours vertuous Thought,
And is with child of glorious great Intent,
Can ne'er rest, until it forth have brought
Th' eternal Brood of Glory excellent.”
--
Edmund Spenser, “The Faerie Queene”, Book 1, Canto V
It
might seem far-fetched, even preposterous, to compare my capricious 9th
grade English scholars to a mythical knight who’s setting out to achieve a
“Glory excellent”, but the comparison makes an odd kind of sense to me. I think
my students are, in fact, “noble hearts”, simply because I see them every day
acting in bold and stalwart ways. They sit up straight in an often tiresome
class, plod patiently through my exhausting daily assignments, write taxing
essays week after week, and often mask their stress and troubles with a smile
for their teacher. They’re not
seeking “Glory excellent”, but simply a civilized grade in English, and they’re
doing an honorable job of it. Despite their occasional cycles of silliness and
lassitude, I persist in believing that the students have a “glorious great
intent” in their hearts – that, in their own particular ways, they all want to
achieve goals they can honestly call great. In one way or another, they are all
knights searching for their own private kind of glory. No doubt many of the
kids’ particular glories have little do with my English class, but that doesn’t
mean I shouldn’t recognize and be glad about their aspirations. They are each
devoted to something great, and that’s what’s important, whether it’s becoming
a champion skateboarder, a trustworthy friend, a daring soccer scorer, or,
conceivably, an A+ writer of English essays. They may not all be knights of Mr.
Salsich’s roundtable, but they are all faithful knights in their own singular
way – and admirable ones, at that.
* * * * *
BOTH BOLD AND MEEK
I’m
hoping to continue to develop both boldness and meekness in my teaching, and I
hope my students do the same in their schoolwork. I want to be ever more
fearless but still humble – always ready to risk failure by following an
unproven path in a lesson, but also ready to recognize that my meager efforts
are no more special than a puff of air in the immeasurable weather system of
the earth. Likewise, my students
should be audacious but unassuming in their approach to English class. They need to take the necessary gambles
as they get fresh sentences together for an essay, but they must also keep in
mind how modest their understanding is in the face of the far reaches of wisdom
in this world. In our small countryside
classroom, my students and I need to be stalwart but self-effacing explorers –
looking for glory but also for the grandness of the world of which we’re an
infinitesimal part. It’s not easy
to be both bold and meek. It’s not a simple thing, for instance, to send
students off on a stressful assignment and still stay humble enough to realize
that you really have no sure idea whether the assignment will be successful or
second-rate. Likewise, it takes
some effort on a student’s part to stand firm in an opinion about a poem and
yet be completely open to other interpretations. I often think of mountains in
this regard. A mountain is a bold presence as it stands sturdily among the
clouds, but you might say it’s also modest enough to submit to the machinations
of rain, snow, wind, and countless other powerful influences. It knows its brave but unprivileged
place in the universe, and so should my students and me.
* * * * *
BLASTING OUT POEMS
Yesterday,
while I was out for a walk, a car passed by with music blaring at a
preposterously high volume, and I was suddenly inspired: maybe I should blast poetry from my car. Think of it: a wan and
well-aged English teacher driving around town with Wordsworth exploding from
the windows. I could cruise the streets with the sounds of some fine British
actor’s rendition of “Lines Written in Early Spring” soaring out of the car at
the highest possible decibel level. Late on a Saturday night, I could drive
among the bars and bistros and amuse the revelers with Richard Burton shouting
out “Daffodils” so it reverberates and booms for blocks around. I assume that a lot of young male
drivers blast their music out to the streets in the hopes of getting wandering
young women to glance their way, and perhaps I could have some kind of similar
luck. Being a long-ago divorced guy in my weathered years, maybe I could
convince some worn but fine-looking woman to look my way if she hears lines
from Paradise Lost pouring out of my
car. Maybe a gorgeous lady in her
late 60’s might swing a wave my way when she hears Hopkins’ words soar up from
my windows with both tumult and charm: “Nothing
is so beautiful as spring – when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and
lush”. Alas, surely I’m deceiving myself with these foolish daydreams, but
at least I’m fairly certain I could impress (well, maybe) my young students if,
when I pulled up to school on a Friday night to chaperone a dance, the voice of
Will Smith was booming a Langston Hughes be-bop poem from my CD player. Maybe the students would gather around
my car and say things like, “Hey Mr. S, that’s a cool poem. Can you turn up the
volume?” Or maybe (more like it), they’d just smile politely at their odd and
antiquated English teacher and turn back to the sounds of Slipknot thundering
out from the gym.
* * * * *
SONGS, ENGLISH FOOTBALL,
AND ENGLISH CLASS
I
was watching a soccer match on television yesterday, and the constant and
stalwart singing by the spectators (a European tradition) started me wondering
if music and English class would be as fitting a match up as music and English
soccer, or football, as they know it. Most of my students worship music like
some kind of supernatural force, so perhaps it would be smart of me to make use
of that force in the classroom. Like the singing in soccer stadiums, the
students’ beloved songs could form part of the surroundings of our efforts and
struggles in class. Perhaps the kids could connect the underlying harmonies and
lyrics of the music to whatever it is we’re attempting to do in class, or
possibly the spirit of the songs would simply lift their hearts a bit during an
especially tedious class. It makes me think of the background music spring
birds make as I sit in the park with a book. Does their music interfere with my
reading, or make my thoughts less focused and fervent? On the contrary, it
might be that the birdsongs bring just enough beauty to my ears to rouse me
more fully to the significance of the sentences I’m reading. What if I played a
mix of songs on Pandora.com during class, at a very soft volume, sort of like
the songs of birds in spring trees?
Each day, a different student could choose a band or artist with which to
make the mix (with the proviso that the music must be of a smooth and
levelheaded kind), and we could then carry on our literary pursuits while the
songs make a laid-back milieu for us. Occasionally, I could turn up the volume
for a few seconds, just to have a listen, and we could try to connect the words
we hear to whatever we’ve been discussing. For instance, while I’ve been writing this, I’ve been listening,
on very low volume, to a Pandora mix of Norah Jones-type songs, and I just
turned up the volume to these words by Jones herself: “I’m looking for the
break of day”. In class, I could ask, “How do those words relate to writing a
blog post?” -- and some
enlightened young scholar might answer, “Easy. Each and every sentence, you
hope, is like the break of day for the reader.” Who knows? The singing in stadiums may inspire soccer
players, and perhaps my students might mentally rise and shine if Alicia Keys
or Owl City is singing in the background in Room 2.
BLOSSOMS AND TEACHERS
This
morning, a lovely one, I started wishing I could teach the way blossom-filled
branches behave. There’s a tree outside my classroom that’s laden with purple
blossoms these days, and I admire the way it sways with even the softest
breezes. The tree doesn’t appear to exert any effort; it simply lets the spring
winds shift and shake its blossoms.
It seems to feel the slightest influence of even the mildest breezes –
seems to slightly transform itself with every passing gust. I wonder if I could
teach that way. I wonder if I could I put aside some of my useless fussing and
distressing, and just focus on being a sturdy, sensitive teacher for my
students. They bring their breezy ideas and words to class, and, like the
blossoming tree outside, perhaps I could simply let the ideas and words stir me
in their various ways. What’s
interesting is that the tree’s limbs rustle with even the gentlest puff of
wind, and maybe I could be that kind of teacher – a truly responsive one, a
teacher whose thoughts are genuinely influenced by the students’ thoughts that
waft and float around him in class.
* *
* * *
A
WEALTHY TEACHER
There
are days – like today – when I feel like a wealthy man as I move among my
teenage students. Leading the class through a lesson, I feel like I’m wearing a
thousand-dollar suit and swinging a priceless watch on a chain. I feel richer
than a king, and bighearted enough to give a good deal of my wealth away. I
picture myself tossing out coins with each smile and word. Where does this
feeling come from? Simply put, I know that I have unlimited resources at my
disposal, primarily in the form of an infinite supply of good ideas. In the
bank of my mind, my account of thoughts is bottomless. It can never be
overdrawn. I don’t have much real money, and I rent a modest apartment and
drive a low-cost car, but in my classroom, I have a limitless amount of ideas
to “spend”. Not all of my ideas are dazzling or clever or even interesting, but
they’re all potentially helpful and even transformative – all umpteen zillion
of them. I spend my ideas freely and cheerily during each class – dealing them
out to the kids like cold cash. Of course, they aren’t actually “my” ideas. I
don’t “make” them like the mint makes dollars. As far as I can tell, ideas just
arrive at my life, by the dozens and thousands -- constantly, surprisingly and
sometimes enchantingly – and from me they flow out into words for my students.
A rich river of ideas is available for me (and for all of us, if we only knew it), and I ramble around my classroom
like an openhanded millionaire.
* * * * *
NOT WHO I AM BUT WHAT
I DO
I
wonder if I might learn something about teaching by studying the procedures of
sailors on a ship. Some Navy friends told me recently that, when they are
carrying out their various nautical responsibilities, they don’t use personal
names to address each other, but rather the specific duties of each person. As
one woman told me, it’s not who you are that’s important, but what you do. Hence, someone named Jim Smith might be referred to as
HM2 (his job), as in, “Hey, HM2, can you give me a hand?” My friends explained
that this serves to downplay the independence and separateness of each person,
and instead reminds the sailors that togetherness is more important than
individuality, that the team is more crucial than any single player. Of course,
my English classes are not particularly analogous to military units, and I’m
certainly not suggesting that the individuality of my students is not of
critical importance, but still, there’s something to be learned from the team
approach used by the Navy. The senior-citizen person named “Hamilton Salsich” –
an individual with innumerable arbitrary likes and dislikes and a 68-year
history of ups and downs and sorrows and triumphs – is not nearly as important
in Room 2 as “the teacher of literature and writing”. That’s my job – “what I
do” – and all that’s important, really, is that the job gets done, day after
day, with as much excellence as possible. Never mind who my parents were or
what happened at home last night or what personal burdens I may be carrying; what
counts is the job --
teaching English to the teenagers who come to my classroom each day. Does this mean that I should be a
frosty and aloof kind of teacher? On the contrary, leaving my personal life at
the door might actually mean that I can to do my important job with a greater
sense of allegiance, loyalty, and even exuberance. After all, teaching is, above all, about being dedicated to
others – the students – and that kind of devotion should lead to an intense
passion for the work. When there’s a higher goal than mere individual, personal
pleasure – as there is in the military and should be in teaching – there exists
the prospect of seriously ardent and grand endeavors.
* * * * *
LOOKING CAREFULLY AT
BLOSSOMS AND SHAKESPEARE
In
between classes this morning, I took a close look at some crimson blossoms on a
handsome tree near my room, and it reminded me, instantly, of some of the times
when I’ve paused in reading and taken a close look at the text. Of course, more
often than not I don’t pause, don’t take a close look, don’t carefully examine
either what I’m reading or the blossoms on a tree. Like many of us, I’m often
in a somewhat scatter-brained mode when I’m reading or passing picturesque
trees, so I seldom take time to look closely. Words in books usually hurry into
and out of my mind as fast as the pages turn, and I’m afraid that pretty trees
come and go in my life merely like blurs or shadows. However, this morning, I bent close to a few blossoms and
actually saw them. I studied them for
a few seconds, and sure enough, the fullness of their beauty became clear. It
was just a fleeting moment of study, but it was enough to show me a small kind
of magnificence just outside my classroom. It reassured me, in an odd kind of
way, that I’m doing the right thing by requiring my students to read The
Tempest little by little and with great care. We regularly stop and study
lines and words, similar to the way I stopped beside the spring tree this
morning. You might say we stroll through Shakespeare instead of
dashing. We use the magnifying glasses of our minds to inspect the small
treasures concealed in his words – the blossoms of language that hasty readers
surely miss.
* * * * *
AMBIGUITIES AND
OBSCURITIES
This
morning a colleague was saying, with dismay, that she can teach the same lesson
to consecutive, fairly similar classes, and have one lesson soar and the other
stumble and fall to pieces, to which another colleague added, “And there seems
to be no discernible reason for the difference.” It is, indeed, a mystery, how
the same plans, words, even gestures of a teacher can stir up eagerness in one
class and only bewilderment in another. It makes no apparent sense. I’m the
same teacher at 10:30 and 11:20, and the students are of more or less
comparable abilities, and yet wisdom blossoms in one class but only lassitude
in the other. It’s even more mystifying than the weather. After all, a good
meteorologist can explain even the most screwball weather patterns, but who can
make clear why the same lesson triumphs in 9A and quietly dies in 9B? I’m
assuming, of course, that the two classes are of similar abilities and behavior
patterns. We all know how one group of kids can seem eminently teachable while
another group appears consistently inaccessible, but what if the classes are
fairly similar – and still we see the same lesson suceed in one class and fail
in another? I challenge anyone to
find a scientist of any kind who can explain this phenomenon (a regular one for
most teachers) with passable accuracy. It speaks of the essential mystery involved
in teaching other human beings. The riddles of the weather are second-rate
compared to the ambiguities and obscurities that arise when a teacher and
students come together.
* * * * *
BALANCING PRESSURES
IN ENGLISH CLASS
When
a friend was telling me recently about hydrostatic balance – the state of
equilibrium in the atmosphere when the forces of gravity and air pressure are
balanced -- I couldn’t help but think about the atmosphere and forces in my
classroom. My friend explained that in our atmosphere we are constantly under
intense pressure, from both gravity and the air, but because the pressures are
usually well balanced against each other, we generally live our lives fairly
unaware of them. There’re just there, always pushing and pulling us in
different directions with considerable force. As I listened to my friend, I
realized that I hope the academic atmosphere in my classroom produces similarly
balanced pressures. There’s nothing wrong with having students labor under
powerful pressures – the pressure to complete demanding assignments, the
pressure to unravel the truths in elaborate literary works, the pressure of
their own desire to achieve, and, yes, the pressure their sometimes insistent
parents place upon them. In addition (and this relates to the counter-balancing
pressures in our physical atmosphere), there’s no doubt that my teenage
students also work beneath reverse pressures – the pressure to be liked by
friends, the pressure to sometimes put one’s head in the clouds, and the
pressure, sometimes, to just be purposely foolish and irresponsible. When all
these various and contradictory pressures are perfectly balanced in my
classroom, a fine kind of peaceful intensity can come into being -- passion and
concentration nicely balanced by lightheartedness and looseness. In this ambiance, the kids work energetically
but also smile and laugh energetically. They grit their teeth to understand a
sentence in Joyce, but they also lift their eyes to take pleasure in the sight
of birds at the feeder outside the classroom. This is hydrostatic balance, Room
2 style.
* * *
* *
A
COLOSSAL RIDDLE
“…a sort of mystery which he was rather proud to
think lay outside the sphere of light which enclosed his own understanding.”
--
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda, Ch. 46
I
love this quote, because it rather exactly describes a feeling I get nearly
every day in the classroom. Teaching teenagers, a vocation I have been lucky
enough to call mine for over 40 years, has gradually become an ever more
profound mystery to me. Instead of slowly building an understanding of how to
perform this delicate and essential work, the passing years seemed to have
slowly stripped away the pretense that I actually know what I’m doing. Little by little, I have been humbled.
I now know there’s probably no greater mystery than the art of teaching young
people, and at present, at the age of 68, I humbly knock on the door of this
mystery before every class. I
don’t mean that I’ consider myself a second-rate teacher. For sure, I have
learned countless techniques, tools, methods, systems, and procedures, and
these do appear to have moved my hundreds (thousands?) of students fairly
smoothly along the track of formal English education – but none of that really
touches the mysteries involved in teaching kids. For the most part, formal
school curriculums run only across the surface of students’ lives, while their
true verve and vivacity goes on blossoming and exploding far beneath. I’ve been
playing a fairly good game of English teaching over the years, but all the
while the mysteries involved in educating human beings have grown gradually
larger and foggier. Actually,
though, in a strange sort of way, I feel proud
that I’m involved in such a mystifying profession – proud that a vast body of
knowledge still lies “outside the sphere of light which encloses [my] own
understanding”. It makes me feel
honored to know that I’m at the center, each day in Room 2, of an immeasurable
enigma, a colossal riddle – honored, I guess, that I’ve been allowed to be part
of it day after day, year after year.
* * *
* *
MAKING
DAYLIGHT
“…a pretty articulateness of speech that seemed to
make daylight in her hearer’s understanding.”
-- George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
As
a teacher, I hope I can occasionally do what Eliot’s Mrs. Meyrick could do. I
picture her children and friends listening to her words, when suddenly
something like a sun rises inside their minds and previously concealed truths
become clear. Darkness and disorder becomes brightness and clearness when they
listen to her. Her words seem to
carry lights inside them that switch on when someone listens. This would be a
first-rate trick for a teacher to perform, and perhaps it happens more often
than I realize. Perhaps a few small sunrises happen in some of my classes,
thanks to something I say. It could be that, as the students listen to me,
thoughts occasionally spring up in their minds like stars above. Maybe, every now and then, I’m able to
dispel a bit of my students’ mental darkness just by speaking sincerely and
straightforwardly, sharing my thoughts about a sonnet or a story. Of course,
it’s no doubt true that some of my students spend much of their time in English
class sojourning in daydream land, but perhaps a few others are thrown under a
clear inner light by a classmate’s comment or a passing observation from Mr.
Salsich. I’m sure on many occasions there’s ample darkness and fog in the minds
of my students during class, but hopefully there are also some occasional rays of
sunshine inside their minds. Hopefully, now and then, something old Mr. Salsich
says makes a bright day in the inner life of a confused kid or two.
* *
* * *
THE
FOG MACHINE IN ROOM 2
“… his negative mind was as diffusive as
fog, clinging to all objects, and spoiling all contact.”
-
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
I
hope it doesn’t happen often, but there are definitely days when I am probably
little more than a fog machine in my classroom. These are days when, for murky
reasons, I bring a “negative mind” to class, much like Grandcourt in Eliot’s
novel carries his clouds of unconstructive and pessimistic thoughts wherever he
goes. I’m sure I’m usually unaware of the force of my occasionally
unenthusiastic and depressing thoughts, and so they spread their fog through
the classroom room unobtrusively, while I go unsuspectingly on with my lesson.
On those gloomy days of mine, I may see myself as playing my usual role as a
well-prepared teacher, but the students probably see fog flowing out from my
overcast face – the fog of down-in-the-dumps moodiness. It’s always astounding
to me to realize how powerful a teacher’s presence is to students – how easy it
is for his peacefulness or discontent to surround and infuse the students.
Whatever a teacher is feeling flows out to the students, sometimes like
agreeable and uplifting light, but sometimes, unfortunately, like stifling fog.
There’s more than enough light in my life to carry some to the classroom each
day; I just need to leave the fog machine at home.
* * * * *
THE LABYRINTH IN ROOM
2
I’ve
occasionally written about the fact that teaching English often reminds me,
oddly enough, of walking in a labyrinth. I purposely didn’t use the word
“maze”, because long ago a friend explained to me that a labyrinth and a maze
are very different things. A maze, he said, has paths that lead nowhere and can
cause utter bewilderment, whereas a labyrinth always leads, eventually, to the
center. In a labyrinth, you
actually can’t get lost; with patience and perseverance, you always reach the
goal, one way or another. I often think of this analogy when the students are
studying a literary work – a poem, for instance. Sometimes they become disheartened by the idea that the poem
is simply too puzzling, too obscure, but I try to encourage them to just keep
“walking” through the poem the way they would walk in a labyrinth, trusting
that all paths lead to the center.
In a labyrinth, they wouldn’t walk in an anxious and dispirited way,
because they know they will eventually reach the heart of it, somehow or other,
and, likewise, a composed and steadfast reader will sooner or later reach the
heart of any poem. In a labyrinth, the secret is to simply keep walking and
watching, and the secret of understanding a literary work is to simply keep
reading and thinking. With a poem, the students may have to read some lines
over and over, walking this way and that with the thoughts in the words,
turning left and right as the sense of the lines leads them on. Similar to a labyrinth,
the students may very nearly reach the heart of the poem, and then slowly find
themselves back at the start, back on the outside of the lines, looking in at
the web of words and wondering what it’s all about. However, even then, I
remind them to simply start walking good-naturedly through the poem once again,
taking pleasure in the power of the words and waiting unwearyingly for the
lines to lead them him to the heart of it all. For an enduring reader, it
always, in due course, happens.
* * * * *
PATIENCE FLOWING
An
old hymn speaks of “patience flowing from a fountain”, and I often wish I had a
few of those fountains in my classroom. No quality is more important in
teaching teenagers than patience, but it sometimes seems like my patience dribbles
from a dried out creek bed instead of pouring from a fountain. I seem to run out of patience as
repeatedly as rivers run out of water in the parched places of the earth. I
sometimes feel like I have a far too shallow supply of this calming classroom medicine
that has made miracles for me on those occasions when I’ve put it to use. When
lessons have looked like they might explode in my face, I’ve sometimes been
able to diminish the tightness and pressure of things with a balanced flow of
patience, just quietly letting the lesson work itself out in its best way. When
the temptation has come to hurry the students through an activity, a stream of
patience has occasionally softened my edginess and enabled me to be a quiet
coach for the kids instead of an uptight dictator. Strangely enough, I often
think that, if I could ever understand it correctly, I would see that patience
is actually a bottomless, shoreless sea to which I always have access. It’s
always there, inside me, waiting to smooth out a rough situation or dampen the
dried out areas of a typical day of classes. I don’t seem to have enough
patience because I don’t understand what it is – not a material substance that
can be measured and lost, but a substance of the heart that has no bounds. It’s
an unlimited lake I’m lucky to always have access to, no matter how badly
lessons bomb or goals get lost in disorder.
* * * * *
SWAYING IN ENGLISH
CLASS
Watching
a tree’s limbs sway in a breeze this morning made me think of an important
quality I’ve tried to develop as a teacher. Breezes of another kind – breezes
born of teenage thoughts and feelings – are always blowing here and there in my
classroom, and I need to be bendable enough to sway with them. The stiff,
obstinate tree limbs are the ones that sometimes snap in good winds, and
something similar holds true for teachers. My students bring their
serendipitous, blustery minds to class each day, and I must be loose enough to
deal with whatever mental weather develops during class. It heartens me to look
at several enormous old trees near my house, because they remind me, as their
elderly limbs effortlessly lift and fall in various winds, that certain kinds
of suppleness can perhaps increase as the years pass. I’ve been teaching for
four decades, and, in these senior years, my body doesn’t bend with the ease of
the old days, but my mind and heart, surprisingly, seem looser than ever. The
old beech tree down the street sways its branches with grace and style, and I’m
finding, as the years pass, that my thoughts and feelings sway better than ever
in the classroom. Whatever winds the kids let loose in the room, my mind seems
to know what to do – not stiffen and grow stubborn, but simply lean and swing,
lean and swing.
* *
* * *
BUBBLES
AND TEACHING
Yesterday,
when my granddaughter and I were blowing soap bubbles on her 3rd
birthday, I somehow felt like I was back in my classroom. As we watched the
bubbles drift off in the spring air and then pop or simply disappear, I thought
about the hundreds of thoughts I share with my students each day, thoughts that
are lucky to last as long as the bubbles we were blowing. My phrases and sentences sail out among
the kids like our bubbles floated among the flowers, and most of my words, I’m
sure, silently vanish from the students’ minds as fast as the bubbles
disappeared. In fact, all my carefully designed lessons are probably no more
abiding than the ephemeral bubbles Ava and I were cheerfully sending forth.
Some of my English lessons no doubt harmlessly dissolve and vanish within
minutes, just as moments and days do. Classes and school days pass away like
bubbles in a stream, and so do Mr. Salsich’s precious lessons. To me, though,
this is not cause for gloom. After
all, I’m mildly confident that some of my words and lessons are occasionally as
interesting, even perhaps as beautiful, as the bubbles Ava and I sent sailing
across the lawn yesterday. They don’t last, but then nothing beautiful does,
simply because beauty always makes room for new beauty. As our bubbles
disappeared, my granddaughter and I took closer notice of the multicolored
blossoms they had been among, and when my words and lessons have vanished,
perhaps it’s sometimes true that the students’ wisdom has, in a secret way,
ever so slightly widened and sharpened.
* *
* * *
WITHOUT
MR. SALSICH’S HELP
Early
this morning, as I took my daily exercise on the hilly streets near my house, I
heard countless sounds of sunrise, and none of them needed my help.
The universe of my neighborhood was stirring and rising into life
without Mr. Salsich’s assistance.
The English teacher who sometimes sees himself as the center of his
classroom cosmos was completely superfluous this morning. The new day was
effortlessly establishing itself without my support or advice. It was an
instructive half-hour for me. As I climbed the hills, I heard the whistles of
birds and the hum of early cars, the buzz of morning insects and the rustle of
spring blossoms, and it came to me, as though a lamp had softly switched on in
my mind, that countless things happen, moment by moment, without my help or
approval. Even my eyes were working with no help from the officious English
teacher – my eyes that make miracles every single second, welcoming the world
into my life whether I want them to or not. Also, my ears were receiving the
morning sounds with wholeheartedness and ease, not because I made it possible
for them to do it, but because that’s what they naturally do. The point was as
clear as the daybreak song of a robin: the universe doesn’t need my consent for
anything. As I continued climbing and thinking, I realized that this applied
even to my teaching -- that my students can learn beautifully without any
special approval or help from me. Certainly, as a teacher, I lend my daily support
and assistance, but like the bird songs encircling the streets this morning,
learning of some sort will carry on no matter what flashy plans I make for
class. Kids learn because their
hearts and minds are miraculous learning machines, not because some wizened
English teacher dreams up bizarre lessons. It’s amazing to me how often I fall
into the fantasy of thinking that I am an utterly essential part of my
students’ schooling. I was surely not a necessary part of the sounds at sunrise
this morning, nor am I indispensable in my students’ attempts to make some
wholesome academic noise in their school careers.
* *
* * *
SEEING
WHAT IS
Feeling
frustrated lately by a sense of disorder and obscurity in some of my lessons
and classes, I’ve been remembering something I was told on a bus to New York
City many years ago. I sat next to an elderly fellow who was traveling to see
his six grandchildren in the city, and, when I complained about some turmoil in
my life, he smiled gently and said, “Just see what is. Just see what is and go
from there.” He turned back to his
magazine and we spoke no more, but his words have stayed with me. In a weird
way, those three small words – see what
is – seem to state an essential truth about life, and about teaching. It
sounds overly simple to say it, but what I need to do in my classroom is just
see what’s right in front of my eyes, moment by moment. I don’t need to see
goals and objectives and long-range plans and detailed curricula as much as I
need to see the distinct and singular students sitting in front of me at any
particular moment. Instead of almost exclusively focusing on following the
steps of my lesson plan, I need to open my eyes to the miracles called Maddy
and Joseph and Asia. It seems increasingly clear to me that I have spent a
ludicrous amount of classroom time seeing what isn’t instead of what is. Tomorrow’s class isn’t, and neither is
next week’s nor yesterday’s. Even the next step in the lesson isn’t. Only this
moment – this strange, unsullied, spanking-new moment with Ryan in his red
shirt right in front of me and Carrie beside the windows and Cassy saying what
she thinks the story means – only this moment really is. Reducing frustration might be as simple as rediscovering my
eyesight, my mislaid capacity for seeing what is, whether it’s Jeb searching
for words to express his thoughts, or Amy all by herself by the bookshelves, or
Billy bending under his pack of troubles as he sits beside me, or a granddad in
a gray sweatshirt going to town on the train.
* * * * *
SEEING THE STONES IN
THE WALL
Today
I wonder if I might, in fact, see
something in my classroom that’s been right in front of my eyes all along. A
similar thing happened this morning as I was climbing the hills near my house
for my daily exercise. I passed a stone wall which I had passed numerous times
before on other walks, but this morning, for some reason, I actually noticed
the wall and the individual stones in it. I saw the separate stones with their
distinct shapes and sizes, and I even noticed the various shades of gray in the
stones. It was a strange daybreak revelation, as thought the stones had
magically materialized overnight. It started me thinking about my English
classes, those daily 48-minute episodes which I sometimes pass through like a
ghost going somewhere in a hurry.
How many small but significant occurrences have I completely missed in
my classes because I was focused on my particular prearranged agendas and
goals? How many students, far more
fascinating than a stone wall, have I passed over with scarcely a glance as I
sped on to the next step in my lesson? I sometimes compare myself to someone
sitting at the edge of the Grand Canyon with a blindfold on. My students – and
I say this with all seriousness – are way more amazing than the Grand Canyon,
and yet I walk into my classroom each morning like it’s just a run-of-the-mill
room on a commonplace country road. Today, perhaps I can take off the blindfold
and see what’s in front of me – not cliffs and ravines, but astounding teenage
human beings, breaking, right before my eyes, into adulthood.
* * * * *
NOBLE RETICENCE
“…
such … noble reticence …”
--
Tennyson, Idylls of the King
I’m
no knight in the classroom, but I wouldn’t mind having some of the “noble
reticence” of Tennyson’s stalwart heroes. A reticent person understands the
stealthy power of silence, a power I too easily lose touch with when I’m
teaching. Instead of occasionally pausing to allow silence to spread its
refreshing influence around the room, I’m usually sharing my thoughts in a
fairly relentless manner. The kids might feel like they’re being shot at with a
rapid-fire thought-gun for the full forty-eight minutes. What’s the point of
all this incessant long-windedness? Is teaching all about seeing how many
thoughts I can think up and throw out to my students like so many stones? What
happened to simply shutting up and letting the wisdom in the room simmer for a
few seconds? What happened to trusting the thoughts of the students to do some
tossing around of their own? I sometimes picture a shade tree in the corner of
my classroom, a fine place for sitting and being silent. When I see that tree
in my mind, I’m reminded to make my own silence a part of the daily lesson. I
take my place under the make-believe branches and bring my prattling to a stop
for a few moments, the reticent teacher staying still so understanding can
swell and flourish.
* * * * *
NOTICING THE SCRAPING
AND SCRATCHING
I
wish I could notice things in my classes the way I noticed the scraping and
scratching sounds my sneakers made on the sidewalk early this morning as I took
my daily exercise. Because I tried to be especially focused, I seemed to hear
even the smallest sounds – the closing of a door down the street, the flapping
of a flag around a corner, even the scuffing noise of my shoes. There were
small stones on the sidewalk here and there, and my sneakers made slightly
different sounds on every cluster of stones. As I listened to my footsteps, I
felt like a scientist studying the characteristics of sound variations. It made
me wonder if I need to be more of a scientist in my English classes – more of
an acute observer of the occurrences that come to pass when the students and I
come together. I could set a challenge for myself before each class: How many new and remarkable things can I
notice? I set out this morning to be a sharp and observant walker, and
maybe I need to set a similar task for myself as I prepare for a class. When
scientists are observing phenomena, they use tools like microscopes and
telescopes, but my fairly fit eyes and ears are the only tools I need in the
classroom. I simply need to look
and listen with sincerity. There are things to see and hear in Room 2 that are
far more fascinating than sneakers brushing across cement at six on a May
morning.
* * * * *
COUNTLESS TEACHERS
I am the “official” English teacher for
my students, but I don’t for a minute kid myself: there are countless
unofficial teachers out there doing a marvelous job of making the students
skillful readers and writers. The scholars come to my classroom for 48 minutes
each day and respectfully listen to my lessons and suggestions, but for many hours each day they learn from the
lessons of their unsanctioned, off-the-record English teachers. Every spoken
sentence they hear is a lesson in the use of words to convey thoughts, and
every written phrase they read is full of messages about how to make, or not
make, written words speak with influence and grace. Even listening to their
favorite song lyrics lets them know some of the secrets of using words to win
people’s hearts. Of course, one of my students’ best English teachers is simply
the books they read for pleasure.
The more they read, the more they learn about making sentences move with
style and strength. It doesn’t matter if the book is a best-selling, shallow
story for the beach or a classic to be slowly absorbed: no matter what, the
sentences will teach their intrinsic lessons about the difference between
graceful and clumsy writing. I respect what I do as a trained and salaried
English teacher, but I’m fully aware that I’m not alone. The kids have a bevy
of books and songs and spoken sentences around them throughout their days, all
dutifully doing the work of teaching reading and writing.
* * * * *
YOUNG SAILORS
I
sometimes stop at a park overlooking the Connecticut River to see the small
boats of a beginners sailing class in the distance, and it usually starts me
thinking about my students. Far off, I see the undersized sails fluttering and
tilting as they follow a small powerboat, upon which (though I can’t see for
sure) the sailing instructor is no doubt standing and gesturing. I hear his
voice, very faintly, as he calls out commands and directions and occasionally
sounds an air horn. Around
and back the small boats go, sailing in circles, slanting and leaning, learning
their lessons. Now and then the sounds of yells and laughter float across the
river and up the hill to where I sit with thoughts about my students in English
class. They, too, are learning to “sail”, in a sense, as they maneuver their
way through stories and poems and their weekly writing assignments. As the teacher, I’m in the “lead boat”,
delivering the day’s instructions: “Be
sure to use transitions between paragraphs.” “Focus on whoever is
talking.” “Let’s read page 16.” Like
the boats with their young sailors on the river, my students must lean this way
and that as the winds of the words they’re listening to or writing or reading
blow strong or soft. When writing, they must let out the sails of their
sentences in certain places, but in others they must write cautiously, pulling
the words in snuggly. It’s arduous and tense work, this sailing and studying
English, and I sympathize with the young sailors and students. Sailing a dinghy
on a broad, blustery river is no simple task, and neither is steering through a
year’s worth of assorted and sometimes utterly surprising English lessons.
* * * * *
A COSTUME AND A
SPOONFUL OF WATER
I
recall a friend telling me years ago that a good way to live is to always
pretend you’re holding a spoonful of water in your hand while wearing a silly
costume The point she was making, I think, is that it’s important to be 100
percent focused, no matter what we’re doing, but also 100 percent wild and
crazy. The focus gives us the ability to be totally present with the task at
hand, while the craziness enables us to feel the wideness and elasticity of the
situation. I thought of this today in a 9th grade class, because it
came to me that I had forgotten the silly costume. I was holding the spoonful
of water, all right – utterly focused on the lesson I had planned, keeping my
sights on the next steps, never wavering from what I had arranged to do. I was
holding the spoonful of the lesson with complete concentration and resolve.
Nothing was going to deter me from carrying it all the way to the last second
of class. Trouble is, I had forgotten the silly costume. I had forgotten that
focus and attention to detail must be combined with vision and whimsy and
sometimes pure comedy – that attention to goals without the balancing touch of
looseness and inspiration is an open door to dullness. I was carrying the spoonful
of water without spilling a drop, but the kids’ interest, I’m afraid, was
disappearing into daydream land. It’s a good reminder for me – to always mix
some natural madness with my orderly approach to teaching. It’s what nature
does, after all – a perfectly pristine morning followed by boisterous winds in
the afternoon. My classes can’t be all tidiness and temperate weather. If I’m
teaching sincerely and from the heart, some loose and boundless winds will
sometimes blow through the class, and silly costumes will surely be seen.
* * * * *
CARS AND THOUGHTS
COMING AND GOING
Today,
as I was climbing the hills near my house for my morning exercise, the cars
randomly coming and going reminded me of the arbitrariness and uncertainty that
inevitably make up a part of my English classes. Surely all the cars knew
precisely where they were going, just as I like to think I know exactly where
I’m going in each class – but in my case, there’s way more arbitrariness than I
like to admit. For one thing, my thoughts are among the most haphazard of all
events. When I’m planning a lesson or teaching a class, thoughts crisscross
through my mind like cars gone crazy. I can pretend that my thoughts arrive at
the doors of my mind like orderly servants, but the truth is quite different.
If cars on the street behaved like my thoughts, disorder and dread would rule.
My students, too, must sense some of this randomness as they work on their
weekly writing assignments. Perhaps they, too, notice how their thoughts sort
of speed along the streets of their minds, dashing together into phrases and
forcing their way into the traffic of sentences in the essay. Some of their best ideas are possibly
also the most whimsical and reckless, just randomly rushing around in their
minds, getting lost, crashing, coming to a dead stop sometimes. It’s a marvel,
really, that the students ever manage to systematically park some thoughts in
an essay, and that I sometimes am able to steer a few accidental ideas into a
structured and competent lesson.
* * * * *
SOLEMN SUNSHINE
“Rex
and Anna hurried away through the sunshine which was suddenly solemn to them.”
--
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
I
was struck by the phrase “solemn sunshine” this morning because it brought to
mind the puzzling world I face each day in English class. As I glance around at
my teenage students, I see both sunshine and solemnity, both the joyousness of
childish life and the gravity of heavily burdened boys and girls. There’s
summer on one girl’s face and dark December on another’s. It’s always that way,
day after day – always a mixture of the lightness of being 14 and the weary
seriousness of being 14. I need to remember this when I’m teaching. I may come
into the classroom carrying the inner light of the love of my grandchildren,
which is fine, but what about the student in the second row whose distress
knows no boundaries, or the girl in the back who gives nothing of her kindness
to anyone, ever? To these two kids, the sunshine I’m feeling inside must seem
as solemn as a memorial service as it spreads out from me (which a teacher’s
moods inevitably do). Even a bright and breezy poem can seem as burdensome as
bricks on your shoulders if you bring a heavy heart to it. I’ll try to keep
this in mind tomorrow. If sunlight lays itself across the blossoming trees
outside my classroom windows and all seems heartening and hopeful, I’ll try to
remember that there may be, right there in the sun-drenched room, some students
whose sorrow makes even the brightest of days seem bleak to them.
* * * * *
HAVING MERCY
I
need to have a little more mercy on myself. When things go off-course in the
classroom, I need to loosen up and smile instead of censuring myself. Rather
than giving way to discouragement, I should probably just be cheerfully
inquisitive about where my lesson went askew. I should probably just grin, get
out my detective’s badge, and go off on a hunt for the reasons for the
sidetracked class. As a youngster, I was taught to be merciful to people, and
shouldn’t that include myself? If
I show mercy to my students when their youthful foolishness occasionally lets
itself loose in my classes, shouldn’t I do the same for myself, a loyal but
limited teacher who always tries but frequently fails? Like the good father in
the Bible, shouldn’t I warmly welcome myself back, the penitent prodigal
seeking mercy for a messed up lesson? The universe, after all, is a vast place,
large enough to easily and comfortingly hold zillions of mistakes. So what if I break a lesson into pieces
before it barely gets started? It’s just a mistake, and mistakes are as common
– and as essential – as wrinkled leaves in autumn. Old leaves make soil and
soil makes new leaves, and my stumbles in the classroom create a chance for
mercy, which I, being a resident of this generous universe, have a copious
supply of and should be happy to distribute to myself when asked.
* * * * *
PLAIN MAPS, PAINLESS
ROADS
Driving
along a country road near school today, it occurred to me that my English class
lessons this year were sometimes not as easy to travel as this clean, clearly
marked road. If I asked my students whether it was easy for them to follow our
program of study from week to week, and whether they were always able to see
the overall map and the eventual destination, I’m afraid their answer might not
be an entirely spirited yes. In my
attempts to try new directions and travel out of the ordinary paths this year,
I may have accidentally led the students into some roadless regions that left
them fairly befuddled. In trying to improve my teaching by mixing traditional
with untried methods, I may have forgotten the importance of plain maps and
painless roads. As I thought about it while driving this morning, I realized
that I never go anywhere except on
designated roads, highways, sidewalks, or paths – and I should definitely offer
that luxury to my students. I never wander aimlessly through pathless forests,
nor do I drive my car across pastures and playing fields. I always travel on
legitimate roads and trails, which is what my students, I’m sure, would like to
do in English class. Like me, they would like to always know where they are
going and precisely how they will get there. They would like to have the year’s
big-picture map in front of them, as well as a detailed map for each daily leg
of the journey. Sadly, I’m not sure I always gave them that this year. I’m
afraid my desire to dream big and break out new technology tools might have
sometimes made it a mystifying journey for the kids. Unlike my car cruising on
shipshape roads toward an obvious destination, the students might have
occasionally felt stranded in a classroom wasteland.
* * * * *
DISARMAMENT IN ROOM 2
I
often come to class well armed with preconceived notions, opinions,
conclusions, verdicts, and utter seriousness, but, almost without fail, my
students do something within the first few minutes to totally disarm me. They
are a charming lot, these teens from far different planets than mine. A
youthful smile flashed like a sparkle of sunshine can cause my careful reserve
to crumble pretty quickly, and giggles from a few fourteen-year-olds can almost
always start me smiling, no matter how staid and humorless I had intended to
be. As the years have passed, I have found the harmless foolishness and
ingenuousness of teenagers to be more and more beguiling. In a world gone crazy with seriousness
and self-absorption, my young students bring a refreshing measure of madness
and generosity to my life. They live their lives like cars careening around
cliffs and sharp corners, sometimes smashing up, I’m sure, but always traveling
in a sort of boundless and sincere way.
They are irresistible in their ability to bring me down from my
pretentious, bookish heights with a grin or a goofy joke. They can win me over
so simply, even by staring with joyfulness at a strange, bright bird outside on
the feeder when they’re supposed to be bending over a passage from The Tempest. They know, and I should,
that a red-breasted grosbeak in spring beats ten-syllable lines any day.
* * * * *
PATTERNS
Looking
at a small patterned rug in my living room this morning made me think of my
students and the patterns of our studies in English class. I often fret that my
lessons may not always follow a noticeable pattern – may not always flow in an
artistic manner so as to set up a seamless design for the students – but then I
suppose there’s always a pattern to
things, whether I am perceptive enough to see it or not. Even a spring day of
seemingly disorderly winds and storms has a definite design that would be evident
to any meteorologist. Even the most furious forest fire rages on in a certain
distinct process, following a pattern a forestry scientist would easily
understand. I must continue to
make orderly lesson plans for class, but I must also have a little more trust
in the unseen patterns that sometimes influence my classes. I intend my lessons
to follow certain blueprints, but there may be other undisclosed blueprints
shaping themselves even while I teach the lessons. As I trust the weather to
follow its intrinsic systems, I must learn to trust the teaching and learning
in my classroom to do the same. If I do my best to prepare orderly lessons, all
I can do then is have faith that various useful patterns will materialize in a
smooth and certain manner.
* * * * *
MUSEUMS ALL AROUND ME
This
morning, as I took my daily exercise hiking up and down the hills near my
house, the extraordinary thought came to me that I was in the middle of an art
museum – one that might not have any boundaries. As implausible as it sounds, the scenes I was seeing as I
walked seemed to have the beauty of the best paintings I’ve seen in New York
and London. Wherever I looked were settings that could be set in frames to
shine forth from the walls of museums. There was the luster of streetlights on
surrounding trees, the glow of lamps in a few windows, shadows shaking in the
occasional winds, and over all, the coming of the first sunlight above the
trees. It sounds fanciful, but anywhere I looked I could have framed my fingers
to make a scene that, to me, seemed to rival Rembrandt’s and Van Gogh’s. I carried that thought through my
morning classes, and I soon realized, with the same kind of wonder, that my
classroom is an extension of the museum I was in this morning. It’s hard to describe,
but every student seemed to be dressed for a painter’s portrait, and every
assortment of poses and movements and spoken words seemed ready to be framed.
The way kids turned their heads to listen, their slight movements in chairs,
their shifting expressions as the lesson proceeded, the play of light on faces
and arms, even the flutter of leaves outside the windows – all seemed made for
the handsomest paintings. It made me a little giddy, actually – sort of
rushed-off-my-feet by commonplace, everyday, museum-type magnificence.
* * * * *
SKIES AND TEACHING
I
often fret about the quality of my teaching, but it’s interesting that I never
worry about the quality of the sky. The sky, as the saying goes, is what it is
– stationary in solid blue at seven, cloud-dappled at eleven, stormy with
encircling winds at six, star-spangled at midnight. Not even a fool would
insist that the sky is “better” at one time than another; it’s different, yes,
and perhaps unpleasant to us sometimes, but it’s always just the same
high-quality sky. Its natural “skyness” is always perfect. Why, then, does my
teaching so often seem imperfect, flawed, deficient, and simply unsatisfactory?
Why can’t I appreciate a day’s work in the classroom the way I appreciate the
sky – as an ever-changing and vastly interesting phenomenon? Some skies are
overcast, and some English lessons move slowly and hesitantly, but that doesn’t
necessarily mean they are fruitless. An artist might see something special in a
dismal sky, and I need to see the distinctive qualities of every class I teach, not just the so-called successful ones. After all, some of my students may see
wisdom and a blessing in a lesson that seemed a shameful disappointment to me.
They might see sweetness and light where I see only the cloudiness of
unsatisfactory teaching.
* * * * *
SITTING IN DIFFERENT
CHAIRS
As
often as possible, I like to sit in different chairs around the classroom,
often right amongst the students, just to offer myself as many perspectives as
possible. My usual “teacher” chair is a soft, adjustable one, but this morning
I sat in one of the student’s regular chairs, and it was a significant change
for me. The chair was lower, for
one thing, so I felt smaller and, I guess, less important, less necessary. It
momentarily sent me back fifty years to the time when, like many of my
students, I was a somewhat unsure and hesitant kid trying his best to stay out
of sight in the classroom. As I sat in the small chair this morning, I felt
again that sense of being just another unremarkable student in the vast
apparatus of official education. Earlier in the week I sat in a chair facing
the windows, from where I could see blossoming bushes and trees, as well
as birds being their full-of-life
springtime selves. It was a revelation for me, because I found my attention
strongly drawn away from my own lesson plan and toward the look of the
outdoors, especially the goldfinches flying back and forth like little
flames. As the teacher, I was
perhaps the most distracted student in the classroom for a few moments. The Tempest was not nearly as
fascinating as the irrepressible life I was looking at through the window. On
another occasion, when I was sitting among the students and surrounded by four
hulking boys, I had this sense of being
a small hill among mountains. At one point, the boys coughed almost in unison,
and I’m sure I recall thinking of quakes and upheavals as I felt the force and
noise of their coughs. It was an efficient reminder to me that a teacher should
be a sturdy leader out front, yes, but also, now and then, a student among his
students, struggling like them to respond to surprises and stay alert, striving
like them to feel the flow of at least a little confidence.
* * * * *
THE CLOCK KEEPS
TICKING
This
morning, as I was eating breakfast, I started worrying about a situation in one
of my classes, but the pendulum clock in the living room pretty quickly quieted
me down. It’s happened more times than I can count. I’ll be fussing and stewing
around the house, consoling myself about one misfortune or another, and
suddenly I’ll notice the steady sound of the clock – the clicking that’s
constant in troubles or triumphs, sorrows or exaltations. Whether I’m laid low by bad news of the
worst kind or thrilled by some cheerful thought, the clock still keeps its
unvarying cadence. If I’m walking out into a day of predicaments and possible
bombshells, the clock, as I close the door, will be dutifully doing its work.
Actually, most of our universe is like that – planets and stars and hearts and
lungs performing their work with utter regularity, no matter if my life is
rising to new heights or going bust before my eyes. If I’m looking for reliability, all I have to do is step out
the door and see the stars in their everlasting places, or listen to my lungs
letting air in moment after moment after moment. I may be a bust as a teacher
every so often, but even then, the earth is dependably circling the sun at the
precisely proper speed. It’s a comforting thought – that a zillion things keep
occurring with complete reliability no matter how luckless my life may
sometimes seem. If a lesson on alliteration in Hopkins hits a wall, oh well, at
least my clock back home is doing trustworthy work.
* * * * *
WIDENED AWARENESS
I
should place this reminder front and center on my desk in my classroom: “Expand
your awareness!” It’s become clear to me over the years that almost every
problem I have encountered as a teacher has been caused by my own
unimaginative, unadventurous, small-minded view of what’s happening. Because I
often see things through the zoom instead of the wide-angle lens, my classroom
sometimes seems like a small and restricted place, and my students like
painfully imperfect learners with considerably more shortcomings than
strengths. When I have this narrow view of things, I seem to be operating in an
educational world made up, essentially, of small and inflexible perimeters. In
this kind of classroom universe, everything is tight and tense, which is why I
wish I had that sign as a reminder. I need to say to myself, “Open your eyes!
The universe is limitless! Look up and out!”
The truth is that when I see
limitations all around me, it’s because I choose
to see them. I could just as easily use the wide-angle lens to expand my
awareness and see nothing but stretching horizons – nothing but kids who can
throw their thoughts to the farthest perspective, and a teacher who needs to
learn to let the world be as widespread as it really is. In this kind of
measureless classroom world, no thoughts would be unusable and no achievements
would be out of the question. This kind of widened awareness would make a
classroom what the universe is – a boundless place for truly unrestrained
learning.
* * * * *
FLOW
Over
the years (centuries, I guess), much
has been written about the importance of experiencing the “flow” of life, and
lately, as May has generously blossomed around my school’s campus, I’ve been
feeling some of that flow in my teaching. I guess I’m seeing more clearly that
teaching English, or any subject, is a lot like floating down a stream that’s
as widespread as the sea – not just a small English class stream, but a stream
sent from the universe. All school subjects, all things to be learned, all
events, all thoughts, all thrills and sorrows are in this stream that my
students and I are flowing with. In this stream there’s no separate course
called English -- not even, strange as it sounds, any separate students and
teachers. It’s all one, this stream, and it contains all the creations and
gifts of the universe, and we are among them, my spirited teenage students and
their somewhat shriveled but still zealous teacher. This is the flow I’ve been
feeling each day lately – the endless coursing of the universe right through my
classroom. Sure, it’s convenient
to say that I’m a separate teacher, that my subject is separate from all
others, and that my students are detached and distinct individuals, but the
truth is stranger and more marvelous. Every word we say in my classroom rolls
out, in due course, to the ends of the world, and every sentence that students
in far off places speak somehow draws close to us on Barnes Road in
Connecticut. When it comes to
learning, all boundaries are illusions. We teachers work with thoughts in
class, and thoughts easily stream through and over any make-believe boundary
lines. These days the graceful flow of May’s breezes has made it easy for me to
forget struggling and striving to be a super-teacher, and instead, to just ease
back and be part of the insistent stream of learning that’s carrying all of us
who knows where.
* * * * *
BIRD SONGS AND KID
TALK
At
five this morning, the tunes the first birds were singing around my
neighborhood started me thinking about my students and the words they speak in
English class. The songs of the
birds were of every possible variety, and so are the students’ spoken words.
Some birds sang softly almost to the point of being soundless, just as some of
my students share their thoughts like shy squirrels squeaking from behind a
bush. Other birds this morning were making the proudest of melodies, pouring
out music as if they personally had possession of the entire town, which made
me think of students whose voices seem to rise up with earnest confidence when
they speak. Some birds sang in
short chirps of sound followed by long moments of silence, just as some
students say a few distinctive words and then rest in the ease of stillness.
And surely there were birds stationed in trees who sang no songs at all, but
simply sat on limbs and listened and looked, like the kids in my classes who
stay still from start to finish, perhaps finding some special serenity and
inspiration in their silence. We
need them all, of course – all the various bird songs (even the silent ones)
and each of the numerous ways my students speak or stay quiet. We need, in
equal measure, the soft and noisy birds and the shy and strident students. It’s
the mixture, the bizarre assortment, that makes the music of springtime birds
and youthful students so extraordinary.
* * * * *
I AM BREATHING
A
peculiar and comforting thought came to me today while my students were taking
a quiz: I am breathing. Of course,
I’ve been breathing for nearly 69 years, but at that moment I actually noticed my breathing. As the kids were
working on the quiz, I found myself simply following the flow of my breathing –
in, out, in, out, in, out. Unlike my usual practice while in the classroom, I
wasn’t doing anything – not
organizing my desk, not checking my email, not grading quizzes from an earlier
class, not going over the lesson for the next class. I was simply observing my
breathing -- and, quite honestly, I was fairly surprised by it. I guess what I
found most intriguing was the fact that the breathing was being done without my
help. This perhaps seems obvious – yes, of course, our lungs do breathe
routinely, even when we’re sleeping – but it was a bit of a bombshell to me as
I stood in a square of sunshine by the window. It was like a startling
disclosure: I don’t have to do anything to make my lungs work. My lungs were rising and falling due
to some force other than my personal willpower, and they’ve been operating in
this autonomous way for all the moments of my life. I stood silently with this awareness as the kids finished
their quizzes. I felt my lungs reliably lifting and falling on their own, and,
when the students had handed in their papers and left, I turned and saw spring
tree limbs unreservedly swaying and sunlight overspreading some
stepping-stones, both with no assistance from me. It was good to realize, once
again, that this far-reaching universe finds its own wonderful way without my
particular help. Later, I looked at the quizzes on my desk and knew they would
get graded, somehow, with precision and ease.
* * * * *
AN IMPARTIAL WITNESS
I
often think I’d rather be more of an impartial witness in my classes than
someone called “the teacher”. As the official English teacher of my students,
I’ve too often been the classic busybody, so beside myself with doing,
striving, arranging, and accomplishing, that I almost never find time to stand
back and simply observe what’s happening. An uncommon assortment of surprises
reveals itself in each of my classes, but I rarely see it because of my
fascination with doing, doing, doing. If dozens of flourishing roses
miraculously materialized in the center of the classroom, I probably wouldn’t
notice it, absorbed as I am in my incessant teacherly duties. What if I sat at
the seashore on a flawless summer day and did nothing but draw up lesson plans
for future classes – face buried in a notebook, never bothering to bring my
eyes up to be surprised by the life of the surf and the brilliance of sea birds
in their paradise? Or what if I sat among wondrous mountains and saw nothing
but the words in a book I brought – saw neither imperious hillsides nor summits
with pennants of clouds? I’m not suggesting that I can actually stop teaching
and simply step back and observe for 48 minutes, but I am looking for a little
less relentless doing and a little more thoughtful watching. Even while I’m
teaching a lesson I can be an attentive witness, taking a seat in my mind and watching
these teenage students and their teacher playing the elaborate and absorbing
game called education.
* * * * *
WHATEVER
Not
too long ago, “whatever” was a reply in common use by teenagers, and today I
got to thinking that I could profitably employ it now and then in English
class. The word is generally used
to emphasize a lack of restriction, as in “Do whatever you like”, or “Take
whatever action is needed”, and I occasionally find myself needing to say
exactly that to my students. Sometimes, when they’re writing an essay, they
need to break away from the various academic curbs and constraints they’re
accustomed to and just do “whatever”. That’s what writers from Shakespeare to
Joyce Carol Oates often did, and sometimes it’s what youthful writers need to
do – just go for it, take a gamble, put it on the line. Being attentive to
directions and rubrics is important, but so is going for broke every so often.
I think of athletes in this regard – basketball players, for instance. No game is more restricted by
boundaries and rules than basketball, and yet I’ve often heard of coaches
telling their players before a game to just “go out there and have fun”.
Sometimes coaches will say “play loose” and “don’t think too much” and “play
like when you were kids”. Essentially they’re saying, “Do whatever”, and I need to say that to my students now and then.
When the kids get so caught up in directives and requirements that writing with
strength and authenticity becomes an impossibility, I need to call a time out
and remind them that written words should be windows to the heart, not white
flags of surrender to a thousand rules.
Like a coach, I sometimes need to say (maybe even shout), “Go for it! Take a chance! Let out the
sails! Put the pedal to the metal! You’re only 14 once! Write whatever!”
* * * * *
JUST DOING NOTHING
When
I overheard a teacher say to a student the other day, “Get busy. You can’t just
do nothing,” I recall thinking to myself, “Why not?” It has often occurred to
me that one of my students’ biggest problems might actually be the fact that
they’re always doing something. In my class, I expect them to either be taking
notes painstakingly, listening carefully, speaking clearly, or thinking deeply.
I was raised to believe that the successful life consists, for the most part,
in nonstop doing, and I guess that’s generally the way I’ve run my classes.
Like most teachers, I don’t offer “doing nothing” as an option. However, I must
confess to sometimes asking myself, “Why not?” Why can’t students occasionally
not take notes, not speak, not even listen, not even – shocking as it sounds –
think? Why can’t they, at least for a few moments, simply be alive, without
doing anything at all? Surprisingly, this kind of silent and stationary
liveliness might actually help my students “get more done” in class. If they
could, at least occasionally, drop out of their accustomed academic lifestyle
of just routinely doing one school task after another after another, they might
actually be able to see and hear more clearly what’s happening in class. If
they could simply notice (just notice,
not busily think about) what’s going on – notice the color of a classmate’s
shirt, notice the way the teacher’s eyes move when he talks, even notice the
special movements of trees outside as breezes blow along – maybe they would be
better able to notice the main points of my lesson. It sounds strange, I know –
a bunch of kids doing absolutely nothing in class for a few moments – but there
might be some magic in making life grow slow and silent now and then. Suddenly,
my words might make a little music instead of just the usual noise.
* * * * *
LOOKING FOR ROSES AND
SHADOWS
This
morning, taking my usual early walk, I passed a bush of roses I had never
noticed before, and it made me wonder about the beautiful things I have failed
to notice in my classes. I probably passed these roses on at least seven
previous mornings and never saw them – strolled right past them in my typically
automatic manner. When I noticed them this morning, they were startling in
their modest loveliness, as though they had just miraculously materialized
there. I wondered why I had missed them, why I had been so adrift in my
thoughts that I hadn’t seen such a lovely sight.
Further down the street, I also started noticing the shadows
at this time of sunrise – my own shadow slowly altering as I passed close to
and then away from streetlights, and the shadows of trees and shrubs shaking in
the morning winds. They made a kind of darkish beauty, which, again, I had never
noticed before. I knew they had been there each morning, making their gray
charm, but I had missed them completely. As I sipped my cup of coffee back
home, I wondered what I’ve missed in the 604 English classes I’ve taught so far
this year. How many kids more miraculous than any roses have I taken no notice
of during a class? How many words spoken from student hearts have risen right
past my careless ears?
* * * * *
HUFFING AND PUFFING
THOUGHTS
On
most days I enjoy some good laughs at school, and what I often find funniest
are my own thoughts. Before school, when thoughts of inadequacy and downright
dread are sometimes dashing around in my mind, I can occasionally see all those
passionate, attention-seeking thoughts as though they are simply on a stage and
I’m in the audience – and then I have to laugh at their silliness. It’s as if I
don’t even know the thoughts, as though they’re strange actors swaggering
around with their ridiculous self-importance. From this viewpoint, a thought
like “I’m not sure I’m thoroughly prepared for 9A” becomes just an innocuous
and silly player prancing in the theater of my mind. I also have a hearty laugh
after school now and then, especially if I’m recalling a lesson that completely
collapsed earlier in the day. When I see the thoughts that put that spindly
lesson together, and how flimsy and unrealistic they were, I often laugh right
out loud. The teacher next door
might hear me and think I’ve just thought of a good joke, and she would be
right, in a sense. The joke, so often, is on my own thoughts, those puffed-up
imposters who act as if they are awe-inspiring power brokers, but who are
really just boyish actors huffing and puffing and playing their harmless roles.
It’s fun to watch them and have a good laugh.
* * * * *
JUST SIMPLY
When
I think about teaching, “just simply” is a phrase that often comes to mind. One
of my major goals is to show the students that there’s a fair degree of
simplicity inherent in all they’re required to do and learn in my class. Life,
and being a 9th grade English student, must sometimes seem
overwhelmingly complicated to the kids, and I hope to uncover the ease and
straightforwardness that usually lies just below the puzzling surface of
things. Writing a formal essay can seem like an impossibly intricate task, and
some students get lost in their obsessive planning and fretting, so
occasionally I have to remind them to just simply sit down and do their best. I
also have to remind myself, since I
can easily go straying off into compulsive worrying about how complicated my
responsibilities are. When teaching English starts to seem like rocket science,
I have to take myself back to the plain truth: I’m just simply supposed to help
14-year-olds read and write a little better than they could last year. I don’t
have to remake the students’ minds or shape them into superstars – just simply
encourage them to continue caring about the sentences they write and read. I don’t mean to suggest that teaching
teenagers isn’t hard work, or that it’s free of disappointments and disasters –
just that it’s probably a much simpler task than I usually realize. This isn’t a perfect analogy, but I
think of the old story about the man who, when he found himself in a room with
the window shades pulled down, started to fret about how complicated it was
going to be to bring light into the room. Luckily, someone from outside
shouted, “Just simply raise the shades!” In my teaching, I need to just simply
do my best each moment, and let the learning unfurl as it will.
* * * * *
A GENTLE EMPIRE
In
one of John Keats’ poems, he uses the phrase “gentle empire”, which I love
because it suggests exactly the kind of classroom atmosphere I try to maintain.
It has to be an empire, and I have to be the emperor, because today’s teenagers
badly need adults who will stand at the helm and steer the ship. For some inexplicable
reason, many adults these days have deserted their posts of leadership and seem
to be trembling somewhere behind their children, but not in Room 2 at my
school. Inside that 9th grade classroom is Mr. Salsich’s empire,
where the children are simply what children always are – badly informed,
bewildered, fearful, and sometimes utterly off course – and where the adult is
what an adult should be – in charge.
However, there’s room for gentleness in the best of empires. A ruler can be
both commanding and good-natured, both forceful and affable, and so can an
English teacher. I hope my students see my classroom empire as a place where
strict rules are nicely balanced by optimism and cheerfulness. However, it’s
still an empire. I am my students’ guide and boss, not their friend, mostly
because friendship is not what they need from me. They get friendship from
other 14-year-olds; from me they need leadership – not the kind that browbeats
and pesters, but the kind that both pushes and praises, both makes the laws and
gently lets the spirits of his students rise up higher and higher.
* * * * *
STANDING SENTRY
Last
week, I was totally preoccupied during one of my classes, and later, when I
checked the dictionary, I realized that, to all intents and purposes, an enemy
had seized me. The word “occupy” derives from the Latin for “seize”, so when my
mind is preoccupied, it has virtually been seized by some formidable thought. I
don’t recall the exact nature of the thought that had taken hold of my mind
during that class, but I do remember the feeling of being mentally “in custody”.
The thought, whatever it was, had me in handcuffs for at least the first half
of the class. As I think about it today, I wonder how much of my teaching life
has been spent in various kinds of preoccupation. Of course, there have been
those occasional dark days when my mind was busy with thoughts of a personal
problem, but there have probably also been too many days when some small but
swashbuckling thought threw its weight around and managed to shackle me right
in the presence of my students. I recall
one such day when, believe it or not, I couldn’t stop thinking about which
casual shirts I should buy for the summer, Orvis or Lands End. I was teaching
the tail end of The Tempest, but the
casual shirts decision kept carrying me away from Prospero’s final speech. My
students might have made distinguished statements about the speech, but my
thoughts, alas, were on shirts instead of students, and so their words almost
certainly coasted right past me. What’s really disappointing is how often this
kind of inattention happens when I’m simply preoccupied with what I’m going to say next. Just today, a student was speaking
about a line of poetry, and I know, thinking back, that I didn’t hear him with
full awareness because I was formulating what I wanted to say about the line. This kind of distressing failure
happens way too often in my teaching. I need to do better. I need to stand
sentry for my mind, making sure it stays free and spirited for this hard work
of teaching teenagers.
* * * * *
CHURCH IN ROOM 2
I
often heard my mother use the phrase, “for the love of all that’s holy”, and
nowadays those words often come to mind when I consider the good fortune I’ve
found in my life as a teacher. As the many years have passed, I’ve come to
realize that I enjoy teaching for precisely that reason – for the love of all
that’s holy. Here I don’t use the word ‘holy’ in a religious sense, but rather
in the sense of something being hallowed, or greatly revered and respected. My
classroom has become a hallowed place for me, a place of prestige and
high-mindedness, a place where work of the highest significance is carried on.
Each time I arrive at the classroom, I feel like bowing in respectfulness
before entering. It’s for this reason that I expect the students to enter in a
dignified manner – no loud talking, no horseplay, just earnest scholars
entering a place set aside for distinguished work. This by no means rules out
lightheartedness, for laughs and smiles are acts of respectful camaraderie, and
they belong in the most inviolable places, whether churches or classrooms. In a
serious classroom, there can and should be an abundance of cheerfulness.
Indeed, students are sometimes the most cheerful when they sense that both they
and their work are being treated with respect and a certain amount of
solemnity. I don’t go to church on Sunday, but maybe I go several times each
day at school. Emily Dickinson said her church was her orchard and the choir
was a bobolink, so perhaps it’s not too implausible to say my church is Room 2
and the kids create the music that blesses.
* * * * *
BEING A BOX OF
TISSUES
I
have a box of tissues on my desk at school, and it often serves as a good
reminder of the kind of teacher I hope to be. The box doesn’t do anything but
sit there on the desk and be ready to help. It’s not a busybody box. It doesn’t
push itself into kids’ faces, doesn’t walk around the room showing off its
tissue-ness, doesn’t try to micromanage the students’ sneezes and coughs. It
just sits and waits. If it had a face, it would have an observant and caring expression,
entirely alert and ready to help when needed. As a teacher, I wish I had a
little more of the tissue box in me. For sure, there are times when I need to
be up and about, giving instructions and support to the scholars, but there are
also times when I should keep my overbearing self out of the picture, and, like
a good tissue box, simply wait to be of assistance. When I’m teaching, I easily
fall into the role of commander and manager, and lose sight of the crucial role
of observer and helper. Good managers know when to stop managing and start
allowing – when to stop being at the center and start staying on the fringes,
carefully following the progress of the work. My tissue box knows how to shut
up, stay still, and wait – and I’m still learning that essential skill. I’m
trying to remember that waiters and watchers perform vital tasks as often as
movers and shakers. As Milton reminded us, “They also serve who only stand and
wait.”
* * * * *
SIGNS AND WONDERS
Somewhere
in the Bible the phrase “signs and wonders” is used, and this morning, for some
reason, I began thinking about it, and about the signs and wonders in my work
as a teacher. More and more I find my classroom to be a place of amazement and
marvel. My students are your standard, mainstream teenagers, and yet there’s
something singular and distinguishing about each of them – some strange inner
exhilaration that makes them sparkle in unexpected ways. I notice it almost
every day – the way one student’s eyes twinkle in new ways, the way another
student’s shirt seems to stand out in the eastern light from the windows, the
way a girl’s bracelets bring brightness into the room. Just yesterday, during a
discussion of Romeo and Juliet, I
noticed the shifting patterns of sunlight on a student’s face as he spoke of
Juliet’s sorrow, and then the graceful turn of a classmate’s head to listen.
Mind you, I’m not always this observant; in fact, more often than not I go
through a class with something like blinders on. I push through the steps of
the lesson with severe resolve, rarely noticing the sorrow or high spirits or
dreariness on faces, or the way someone’s chin rests on her hand, or the way
Billy’s eyes speedily blink as an exceptional thought takes place inside him.
Sometimes, luckily, I do see the signs and wonders that are surely always
present, like last week when a girl gave all of us a completely fresh
understanding of Juliet’s father. As soon as she finished speaking, it was like
thoughts had been set alight around the room. I could see it in faces, the
flush that comes with the rise of a new awareness. It was a dark day outside,
but Room 2, for those moments, was a sunny place to be.
* * * * *
WEORTHSCIPE IN ROOM 2
I
don’t attend church on Sundays, but perhaps my classroom is my church. I’ve decided,
after doing some dictionary work, that it might be correctly said that I worship in my classroom. The word
“worship” comes from the Old English word weorthscipe,
or worthship; just as we have
seamanship and scholarship, the early English speakers talked of worthship – the quality of being worth
something, or worthy. A place of worship, then, was simply a place of worth, or
a worthy place, and my classroom certainly fits that description. In a given
year, each of my students spends about 160 hours in my classroom, so it better be a place of worth – a place
where worthy activities take place. Each lesson I teach should have a specific
and measurable value for the students, and each student should take away an
appreciable profit from every class. I might put it this way: the students and
their parents should get their money’s worth from my English class. If I’m a tolerable teacher – if I
provide lessons of some value and consequence for my students – then I do have
a right to say my classroom is a place of worship, or worthship. It’s a room that’s worth something. It’s a worthwhile
place for my students and me to be. It’s worth entering each day. The demanding
work is worth it, which is why I insist that the students always work for all
they are worth.
* * * * *
JOYFUL FIELDS AND
WINDOWS
Driving
through the countryside to visit my grandchildren last week, I passed some
fresh spring fields that looked positively joyful. Someone might snicker at the
thought of a field feeling happy, but I tend to ignore that kind of
anthropocentrism, being sure that the measureless universe “feels” in countless
ways besides the human way. The fields I passed seemed joyful to me mostly
because they we’re doing precisely what they were supposed to be doing – waving
in the spring winds from the west. They were being absolutely perfect fields,
and what better cause for joy than perfection? Another way of saying the fields
were joyful would be to say they caused
joy in me. I sometimes speak of “the joys of a bike ride”, and I can speak,
in the same way, of the joys of these fields. There was something invisible in their shades of gold and
the give and take of their swaying that sent me joyous thoughts as I passed by.
This all has to do with teaching teenagers, because I sometimes sense a similar
joyousness in the nonhuman things in my classroom. I always keep flowers front
and center in a vase in my classroom, and often I feel the simple joys of
having flowers close by. I also sometimes notice the pleasant, almost pleased look
of my whiteboard as it stands clean and well-equipped for the kids, and the
five wide windows with their clear panes of springtime light these days remind
me of the joys of having windows to let in a day’s brightness. I’m fairly sure
windows can’t actually feel joyful, but I’m also sure they can create
joyfulness for students who have been staring at some obscure lines of
Shakespeare and suddenly look up to see the light of an impressive June day
through the glass.
* * * * *
SLIGHT WORDS AND DEEDS
“Very
slight words and deeds may have a sacramental efficacy, if we can cast our
self-love behind us, in order to say or do them.”
--
George Eliot, in Felix Holt, The Radical
When
I’m teaching, I often focus so much on conveying the major points of my lesson
that I lose sight of the power of “slight words and deeds”. My method of
communicating the themes of the lesson is important, but so are my small
gestures and actions, as well as the many assorted comments I make during
class. Even the way I greet a student could almost “have a sacramental
efficacy”, as Eliot puts it – almost the power of something sacred, something
placed in the student’s hands with reverence and respect. If I look directly at
a student and say “good morning” with consideration and sincerity (not casually
and carelessly), the student might, for a moment, feel set apart with a special
stature. Eliot says it requires
that I “cast […] self-love behind” me, meaning I must step out of my separate,
self-absorbed existence and be thoroughly present with my students. I’m often
only two-thirds present when I’m teaching, partially there in the classroom but
also, in some measure, far away with my traveling thoughts. In order to give my smallest gestures
and most ordinary words an air of distinctiveness, I have to drop my
separateness, step away from superiority and airiness, and stay steadily where
I am, right in the midst of some inimitable teenagers. If I take my full
presence with them seriously, then even a turn of my head, a slight smile, a
simple sentence like “What do you think, Tom?” could feel like a stroke of good
fortune to a young person.
* * * * *
HOLDING AND
STRETCHING IN ENGLISH CLASS
Years
ago, I somehow picked up the mistaken notion that the word “attention” derives
from the Latin word meaning “to hold”, but I’m glad I made that mistake, for it
reminds me that when I genuinely pay attention to my students, I am, in a
sense, holding them in a gentle and appreciative way. To me, paying attention
doesn’t just mean watching and listening; it means attending to the students
with wholeheartedness. When I attend to my students, I hold them in my
awareness, look after their talents and needs, and truly care for them. Oddly,
as I found out a few years ago, the word “attend” actually stems from the Latin
word “tendere”, meaning to stretch –
which also helps me understand what paying attention to students really
involves. If I’m genuinely attentive to my students, it means I’m stretching
myself out to them, reaching beyond the borders of my personal interests and
concerns. This kind of attentiveness is hard work, for it requires forcing
myself to extend my awareness, widen the perimeters of my sympathy, and truly
enlarge my life. It’s not easy for me, even after all these years. Perhaps all
this holding and stretching is why I’m dog-tired at dinner time, day after day.
* * * * *
THE WEATHER IN ROOM 2
Lately,
on these final frenzied days of school, the “weather” in my classroom has been
unsettled and sometimes tempestuous. As the school year draws to a close, the
kids find it hard to control their summertime desires, and so my classroom is
less composed than usual. Like sunshine among clouds, free-flowing chatter
breaks out more often, and shifting in seats is sometimes as steady as gusts on
a blustery day. This time of year, several days can pass without one serene
hour for a teacher to take pleasure in. However, I’ve gradually come to
understand the weather patterns in my classroom, and therefore the occasional
tempests and droughts don’t disturb me as much as they did when I was a
younger, more power-conscious teacher. At this late point in my career, I can
usually sit back and quietly watch the weather of the kids’ behavior, taking a
curious interest in when and how it will change. Of course, I manage the
students’ behavior as much as any conscientious teacher does, but I also try to
remember that teaching is a lot like sailing: the weather always changes, and you
have to work with the changes, not
against them. When the energy patterns in the class shift (say, from quiet to
talkative and contentious), I must remember to just turn my sails a bit to
benefit from the new conditions. When the doldrums settle in and something like
siesta time commences, I must somehow turn the drowsy atmosphere to an
advantage, perhaps by taking a five minute break from the lesson, reading a
short poem about weariness and tedium, and asking for reactions. Instead of
fighting the languor, I could have the kids briefly examine it by way of the poem and perhaps learn a little about
where it comes from – and then, back to the lesson with (I hope) improved
vitality, like a spry new breeze after hours of smothering heat.
*
* * * *
LIKE
A LAKE
A
simple approach to lessening my stress in a day’s worth of teaching would be to
be less me-centered and, I might say,
more universe-centered. This would
automatically make my life in the classroom less rigid and self-protective, and
much gentler and softer. Problems arise and grow strong only when I’m thinking
of a separate, frail, and therefore vulnerable teacher – me – as the center of
everything. From that perspective, my primary focus in the classroom has to be
to remain solid, durable, and dead-set against any harm coming to this separate
person called Mr. Salsich. It makes each day a wearing and somewhat constant
exertion. However, if I shift my perspective and see my teaching world in an
entirely new way, as a kind of barrier-free oneness, a classroom uni-verse in the true sense, suddenly
everything softens and calms down. If there are really no boundaries between
separate “things” and “persons”, and therefore no one to protect or be
protected from, then teaching teenagers, all of a sudden, can be seen as an
easygoing and fairly risk-free process. It enables me to loosen my grip, relax
my muscles, and effortlessly give way to every experience, like a lake gives
way to whatever falls into it.
*
* * * *
A
DISAPPEARING YEAR
Just
a few moments ago, sitting by a window in an airport, I saw a shining jet shoot
up and disappear in the west, lost among clouds in a few seconds – similar, it
seemed, to the just finished school year. The year lasted nine drawn-out
months, but looking back, it seemed to blaze into and out of my life as fast as
the plane I saw. The days flashed by like those silver wings went up past the
window where I sat, and the weeks were just small sparkles, here and gone, like
the gleams of sunshine on the vanishing plane. Lots happened in the school year, but now, poof, it’s all
left behind like the fading sound of the jet. It’s strange, how I took my teaching so seriously, when, in
fact, it’s now diminished into nothingness like puffs of wind passing by. My
sometimes-showy lesson plans paraded through the days and weeks and then
wandered off and are now lost somewhere as summer approaches. The tens of
thousands of words my students and I spoke are no more present now than the
wisps of clouds the vanishing plane passed through a few moments ago. If this
sounds pessimistic, to me it’s just the opposite. Planes fading away in the
west mean more planes are free to sail up from the east, and lesson plans
giving up the ghost as summer starts simply make way for fresh, new-fangled lessons
in the fall. The world everlastingly works from life to death and back to life,
and this was the story of the finished school year. It died a peaceable death
last week, thus clearing the way for a spanking new one to rise up in
September.
* * * * *
BREATHING MIRACLES
I
wish I could see the breathing miracles in my classroom more often. One
definition of the word miracle is “an amazing product”, and what is more
amazing than an adolescent human being with all its cells shifting and
transforming and its life leaping up in a brand new manner each moment? If my
eyes had the power of electron microscopes, I would see dozens of marvels in
the form of students each day, marvels of movement and memory and unblemished,
ground-breaking thinking. Each spoken word in English class would seem a work
of wizardry, and even a flash of eyes or a smile would be a spectacle to wonder
at, even a single word from Sam in the back row would be cause for shouts of
appreciation.
* * * * *
KNOWING TOO MUCH
I
sometimes have the odd sensation that I know too much to be a good teacher. My
mind occasionally feels so full of ideas – some of them boasting of being
“mature” and “scholarly” – that no room is left for the simple and spotless
ideas of my adolescent students. My so-called mature and experienced brain
generates so much noisy thinking that, most likely, no youthful voice is able
to be truly heard. It’s as if my mind is a raucous loudspeaker that constantly
booms and barks its thoughts, and what youthful mental music can he heard in
such a din? I wonder: Is it possible for me to unlearn, to de-teach myself, to open the bottom of my mind and let
a lot of these useless ideas drain away?
Is there a way to sponge down my mind so as to free it from some of the
accumulated dust of bigheaded ideas? I actually sometimes wish my brain were
almost cleared out when I meet my students to discuss a poem or a story,
because then the words on the page and the power of the kids’ ideas might
almost stun me. If the rooms of my mind were fairly vacant, my students’
thoughts could conveniently find all kinds of space there. It could be a huge
hotel with prepared and ready rooms each day. As it is now, I’m afraid the kids
often find an absurdly overstuffed old house when they come to the door of my
mind. “No room at the inn” might be the sign outside.
* * * * *
BEING IN AWE
It
might seem silly or even preposterous to speak of feeling a sense of awe while
teaching English to teenagers, but nonetheless, it’s a feeling I’ve often had.
Mainly, I am often astonished at the mere fact that I’m actually granted the privilege to be a teacher of
kids. Teaching young people is an honor, a mark of prestige, an exceptional
gift given to only a tiny percentage of people, and, amazingly, I’ve been
bestowed with that distinction for 44 consecutive years. After all this time,
I’m still in awe of the fact that parents gladly entrust their beloved children
to me for 48 minutes each day – amazed that I’m totally trusted as a reliable
and responsible teacher for their young ones. To me, it’s an honor of the
highest order. I’m also in awe of
the wondrous hearts and minds of the students I work with. I can’t see into
their inner lives, but experience tells me their minds are miracle workers and
their hearts have as much goodness as the sky has stars. Again and again, the
thoughts of students have shined lights on some of my musty, ramshackle
thoughts, and feelings they share from their almost brand new hearts have often
made English class a brighter place to be. Truth is, just working with a few
dozen young human beings is enough in itself to give me a sense of awe. After
all, these kids are unique creations of the universe, the kinds of phenomena
that are full of fresh wonders each moment. Their cells, blood, and brains are
bright and surprising each second, and I’m privileged to be witness to their
miracle-making day after day, September to June.
* * * * *
WATCHING DIAMONDS
Now
and then, when I’m in the midst of working with my students, I picture myself
as a jeweler observing diamonds under changing lights. I’ve heard that diamonds
display astonishing differences in their radiance as they revolve in darkening
and brightening light, and sometimes I’m caught off guard by the ever-shifting
brightness of my students’ lives. Even their youthful faces, their frowns and
grins and expressions of dismay or understanding or exhaustion, can transform
second by second during class. Occasionally, like a jeweler among his diamonds,
I fall into musingly observing their expressions during a discussion, and am
always amazed by the endless alterations. Flashes of comprehension and
appreciation can be followed by the dimness of boredom, which can be quickly
followed by sparkles of passionate curiosity – and on and on. I sometimes get a
little lost in these observations and the discussion temporarily leaves me
behind, but who can fault a jeweler for admiring some diamonds?
* * * * *
EASY, SIMPLE,
SPONTANEOUS
“A
little consideration of what takes place around us every day would show us,
that a higher law than that of our will regulates events; that our painful
labors are unnecessary, and fruitless; that only in our easy, simple,
spontaneous action are we strong, and by contenting ourselves with obedience we
become divine.”
--
Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Spiritual Laws”
My dad used
to tell me that will power is all that is needed to achieve success, but now,
after four decades as a teacher, I actually wish I had less will power, for it sometimes impedes the teaching and learning
in my classroom. I am not a church-going person, but, like Emerson, I have the
feeling that a far greater power than my paltry will is operating among my
students and me. My “painful labors” to be the best teacher I can possibly be
seem strangely insignificant when compared to the other far more impressive and
immeasurable forces that circulate through my classroom each day. I’m like a
tiny swimmer using all my theories and lesson plans and goals and objectives to
make progress, but oddly enough, I’m often battling upstream, when the sensible option would be to relax and float
where the strong, smooth-flowing currents of learning take my students and me. Of course, like a serious swimmer, I
must train and prepare myself for each day’s work in the classroom, but I must
also remember to let the “river” – the universal and ever-present power of
learning -- do the major share of the work. It’s a widespread and magnificent
river, and no teacher should have the foolishness or audacity to think he can do
better than respectfully and gracefully follow where it leads. To a well-trained and wise swimmer,
swimming in even the most formidable currents is “easy, simple, and
spontaneous”, and so it should be in English class.
* * * * *
STANDING BACK
In
the midst of doing some outdoor chores today, I took a moment to stand back and
observe the birds at a hanging feeder nearby. It wasn’t much – just a minute or
two – but it was enough to bring to mind again the magnificence of the most commonplace
occurrences, the day-by-day events that could thrill me if I simply stood back and
actually watched now and then. They
were just small brown birds stopping for food, so slight and silent they surely
go unnoticed by humans for hours and days on end, but today the thought came to
me to stop, look, and listen – and I saw a bit of nature’s daily splendor. It
made me wish I could remember to stand back a bit more often when I’m teaching.
I’m usually so busy being an officious, overly zealous teacher trying my best
to meet my own high standards that I rarely pause to ponder what’s right in
front of me – a group of young human beings the likes of which have never
existed before. Here’s newness and freshness at its finest – kids whose
zillions of cells are remade every second, whose thoughts always blossom (or
explode) in slightly new ways, and whose next moment, at all times, is a bolt
from the blue. How is it that I
can so often teach an entire lesson without recognizing the greatness that sits
before me? No doubt someone might say, “Oh come on. They’re just a bunch of
ordinary teenagers” – but to me that’s like saying the Grand Canyon is just a
valley made of rocks. I suppose there are people who would be bored by the
Grand Canyon (or some brown birds pecking seeds), just as there are people who
think teaching teenagers would be the height of tedium and triviality. I’ve
been to the famous canyon, and I find it astonishing, but no more so – and I’m
totally serious – than what I behold when I occasionally stand back and open my
eyes in English class.
* * * * *
WITHOUT MY HELP
It’s
good for me to recall, now and then, that vast amounts of learning take place
in my classes without my help. I
usually have a fairly self-important and pushy attitude toward teaching, which
makes me somewhat like a man who walks through a day’s sunshine and thinks he’s
causing all the brightness. My bright students are receiving the lights of
learning moment by moment, no matter what I’m saying or doing, and yet it’s so
easy to imagine that I’m the source of it all, the central place from which all
learning in 9th grade English radiates. It easy to think that no education
takes place without my professional assistance, and yet trainloads of new
knowledge, of which I am totally unaware, pass through my students’ lives
during a given 48-minute class. This realization is good for me, because it
relieves me of some of the weighty sense of duty we teachers often lug around.
It reminds me that the sea of learning is far vaster than all earth’s oceans
put together, and that I am a mere ripple in that sea, a supportive but
minuscule stream in the endless currents of schooling. It’s comforting to sit
silently in my classroom after school and think about the many useful truths --
hundreds of them, no doubt -- that my students learned today with no assistance
from me. Actually, when life seems burdensome and bewildering, I often gain
reassurance from simply imagining all the marvelous events that are taking
place without my help. While I’m fretting over what steps I can take to heal my
seemingly troublesome life, all over the earth hearts are beating, leaves are
springing into life, light is falling on flowers, forests are standing just as
they should, silence and peace is coming into uneasy lives – and all with
absolutely no steps being taken by Mr. Salsich. It’s somehow inspiring to me, this small fact of the grandness and
inescapable success of all things. The universe will stride splendidly onward,
with or without me – and so will my students.
* * * * *
STRAIGHT AND NARROW
TEACHING
Though
I am not a Bible reader, I often recall a phrase I heard growing up, something
about “the straight and narrow way”, and I’ve sometimes pondered its connection
to teaching. Just this morning it came to me, as it often has, that teaching
English might be far simpler than I usually make it out to be. Perhaps, I
thought, it’s really a fairly straight and narrow path that could be followed with
little difficulty by any teacher who turns away from the often overstated
complexities and mysteries of the work and simply decides to show students how
to write clearly and read perceptively. That’s really what it’s all about –
teaching kids to write understandable sentences and read with a strong
mind. Perhaps all the
multitudinous theories, techniques, strategies, and approaches to teaching
English should be occasionally set aside so we can rub our eyes and see again
these two simple but special end products: good writers and good readers. I don’t mean to suggest that teaching
English is easy – just that the work could be done in a more straightforward
and uncomplicated manner. There’s a road to be traveled – good reading and
writing – and it’s a straight and clearly marked road, provided our minds
aren’t lost in pedagogical jargon and theoretical labyrinths. It might be as
simple as making sure the students write and read a lot, and steering them back
onto the designated road when they start to swerve away. Of course, if I’m
traveling a road with my students, then I should obviously stay out front and
show the kids how it’s done and where we’re heading. That means, to my mind, providing models for the students to
study and follow. If good writing means using a variety of sentence lengths,
then I need to show them how to do it, over and over again as we travel down the
road. If good reading means reading slowly and mindfully, then they need to see
me doing it day after day so they can follow my lead. Yes, teaching is exhausting
and often exasperating work, but it could be a little simpler, a little more clear
cut, a little less stressful if I got back on the straight and narrow way.
* * * * *
WHERE DO THEY COME
FROM?
I’m
continually amazed when I consider the number of thoughts produced in each
English class – a vast number, beyond counting or comprehending. The students
and I are manufacturing thoughts moment by moment for 48 minutes, which amounts
to tens of thousands thoughts in each class. I sometimes picture us sitting
amidst a swarm of thoughts, always fresh and brisk, always buzzing among us
like news from somewhere far away.
A handful of students and a teacher almost hidden (or protected, perhaps) by thousands and
thousands of up-to-the-minute thoughts: it’s an exciting scene to picture! What
I often wonder is where do all these
thoughts come from? Maybe 50,000
in each class -- 300,000 each day -- 1,500,000 each week – 54,000,000 each
year: Where in the world, or the
universe, do they all come from? It’s an impenetrable mystery, since there’s
simply no way we could ever isolate the precise origin of a thought (short of employing
the useless pseudo-explanation that it originates in the brain). It’s as if
thoughts start somewhere but nowhere, inside us but in the far reaches of
infinity. Locating a starting point is like trying to find where and when a
single breeze began blowing. For me, it just adds to the enchantment of
teaching. I sometimes feel like I’m in the midst of charmed kingdom when I’m
teaching – a kingdom created and cared for by countless miraculous thoughts
from the back of beyond.
* * * * *
SHINING THE FLOOD
LIGHT
When
I’m teaching, it sometimes seems as if I’m wearing a finely pointed headlamp,
whereas I might do better using – at least occasionally – a floodlight. With my
headlamp approach to teaching, I’m usually zeroed-in on some separate, distinct
aspect of my work – perhaps a step in the lesson plan, or the behavior of a
particular student, or maybe a small flaw I noticed in something I just said.
Much like a miner’s lamp in a dark mine, my narrow beam of attention shifts
here and there as I go about my work, lighting up this student or that
statement or this problem, but leaving everything else in relative darkness.
I’m afraid it’s a hesitant, stumbling way to teach, sort of like feeling my way
from one small illuminated spot to another. What’s particularly unfortunate
about this style of teaching is that it tends to exaggerate both triumphs and
mistakes. When I make a properly supportive and instructive response to a
student’s comment, the headlamp’s strong illumination sets my success apart as
seeming far more special than it really is, and, conversely, when I blunder in
my everyday way, the blunder, in the sharply focused light of my attention,
looks more like a complete catastrophe than the commonplace and harmless
misstep that it actually is. I
guess I’d like to use a floodlight style of teaching a little more often. If I
could pretend that a floodlight was shining on my students and me as we work
through an English lesson, I think I might get a truer picture of what’s
actually happening. If the light lit up all of my students and me with an even illumination (which is what
a floodlight does), then I could see all the successes and mistakes in class in
their proper perspective – as just small pieces of a detailed and multifaceted
big picture. Plus, if my imaginary floodlight could light up the whole world, and even the sweeping
stars and planets, then I could see my small classroom on a country road, with
its groups of mainstream teenagers and their grayish, well-tested teacher, as
just another interesting place in a vastly interesting universe. Then, the
little victories and calamities in a day’s worth of teaching and learning would
shine no more brightly than the countless other important but often unnoticed
events that happen when kids and a senior citizen come together to help each
other get educated.
* * * * *
BARRIERS AND FREEDOM
To
my mind, one of the greatest myths young people have been taught is that they
are encircled by countless limitations. It would be impossible to even estimate
how many barriers my students see surrounding them. There are physical barriers
(“I’m not fast enough to be a good
soccer player”) and mental barriers/emotional barriers (“I’ve been diagnosed as
having an attention deficit disorder, and I will have it for the rest of my
life”) – and all of these barriers are seen as undeniable and invincible. They
are insurmountable, kids are told, and must simply be acknowledged, accepted,
and managed. What I find strange, first of all, is that we adults feel qualified to officially proclaim that
this or that permanent limitation exists in a child’s life. Who are we, for
heaven’s sake, to make such executive proclamations? Where did we ever get the
chutzpah, the nerve, perhaps the impudence,
to make a young person believe he will never be able to perform some task or
reach some goal? Certainly it’s important that we help students identify their
weaknesses, but shouldn’t our next step be to help them overcome these weaknesses and thus surmount, to some extent, the
barriers? Shouldn’t we be encouraging them to strive instead of settle? Am I
being hopelessly old-fashioned in believing that trying a little harder is better
than telling yourself, oh well, you’ll never succeed? One of mankind’s greatest
discoveries, proven countless times across the centuries, is that limitations
are created and cultivated in our minds, not in the real world. Change your
thoughts and you can destroy barriers, as Helen Keller, Bill Gates, Walt
Disney, Oprah Winfrey, Anne Frank, Woody Allen (expelled from New York
University Film School), J.K. Rowling (rejected by 12 publishers), and the
Beatles (rejected by Decca Recording Company) discovered. Haven’t most of
humanity’s major accomplishments happened because certain individuals refused
to accept a limitation or bow down to a barrier? It is said that Thomas Edison
had to conduct over 2,000 experiments before he got the first incandescent
light bulb to work. What if a well-meaning person had said to him, after experiment
number 1,999: “Thomas, give it up. Accept your limitations, deal with this
failure, and move on”? He probably wouldn’t have listened anyway, because
later, when asked how he was able to handle 2,000 failed experiments, he
replied, “I never failed once. I invented the light bulb. It just happened to
be a 2,000-step process.’” He somehow knew that barriers always give way to a
true feeling of ground-breaking freedom. To learners who have a sense of
unbounded interior liberty, there are no real barriers, obstacles, barricades,
or fences – except those that can be conquered by simply not quitting. Thomas
Edison knew that truth, and I hope my students can learn it.
* * * * *
HEY, WHY NOT?
I
just finished watching a classic western called Red River, and, strange as it may seem, it made me wish a new
school year started tomorrow. I
was thoroughly inspired by the pioneering spirit of big John Wayne and his
Texas ranch hands as they led 10,000 cattle 1,000 miles north to Missouri on
one of the first cattle drives in the West. They had no definite idea of an
actual trail and no reasonable hope that they would ever arrive at their
destination (or even what the exact destination was), and yet they set off with
an untamed spirit of buoyancy and bravado. They had little to lose and a life
like a long escapade to gain, so perhaps their attitude was, “Hey, why not?” The
film inspired me because that’s exactly the attitude I hope to cultivate in my
classroom. There’s entirely too much hesitancy and diffidence among my young
students, too much desire for undemanding books, safe assignments, and high and
easy grades. If my students were in Texas with John Wayne, they would have been
terrified to set off on such a dicey and intimidating trip. They might have asked for an assignment
they were more accustomed to, like leading the cattle to a local waterhole.
Actually, I shouldn’t be too hard on the students, because I, too, have some of
the same spirit – too much tentativeness and timidity, too little inclination
to try something brave and big and totally different. The film inspires me to
look for new horizons in my teaching and for unmapped trails to take with my
students. I need to say, “Hey, why not?” more often, especially when a really
rowdy and undisciplined idea for a lesson occurs to me. Sure, the lesson might
flop and fail in front of my eyes, but it also might make it all the way to the
end of a startling and instructive trail. Why not?
* * * * *
RIDING WAVES
I
have often watched my son body surfing (he’s an expert), and it has occasionally
started me thinking about teaching. He seems utterly relaxed as he glides in
with the wave, just the way I feel when I’m doing my best teaching. He’s not
struggling with the surf, but simply allowing it to do its work – simply giving
in, you might say, to the drive and direction of the wave, and similarly, when
good things are happening in my classroom, I often feel like I’m allowing them to happen rather than
making them happen. In a sense,
we’re both going along for the ride – my son on waves and I on the never-ending
energies of education. Of course, Matt has to be ready for constant surprises
in the surf, as do I in my classroom of pulsating and restive teenagers.
There’s no possible way to predict what the measureless ocean will send my son
as he waits for a wave, just as there’s no way to correctly foretell how
fortunes will fare during a 48-minute English class. He and I both have to be wise and flexible enough to shift,
dip, and bend so as to bring ourselves in line with the powers confronting us –
freewheeling surf and high-spirited students.
* * * * *
ENJOYING THE SHOW
There
are lucky times in my teaching life when I’m able, so to speak, to sit in the
audience and enjoy the show. Usually I’m much too involved as the main
character in the drama of “Mr. Salsich the English Teacher”, but now and then
I’m able to get myself out of the drama and off the stage. I’m still teaching,
perhaps even standing in front of the students and guiding the activity, but in
my mind I’m sitting in the audience, observing with attentiveness this
absorbing show. It’s a tragicomedy
full of sometimes spellbinding teacher stunts, distinguished successes, and
miserable failures. As I watch Mr. Salsich the teacher in action, I alternately
laugh, sigh, shout approval, and sob. It’s an odd trick, to be able to perform
as the teacher and at the same time observe the performance, but I find it an
essential one. Far too often I get so completely caught up in the mesmerizing
stage show called “9th Grade English” that I forget that it’s only a
show and I’m only playing a part. It’s so easy to take myself way too seriously
as a teacher – to begin believing that what I do during 3rd period
on Wednesday will have life-changing effects on the children, when the truth is
that my classes are no more important than the sunrise this morning or the
meatloaf I made last night. My English classes are shows (sometimes spectacles,
occasionally even extravaganzas) -- not too different than sunrises, making
meatloaf, my lungs lifting and falling, or the stars shining their lights
across the sky. My classes come
each day and then they go, and they’re no more special than other things that
come and go, like breezes and bubbles on water. To be honest, I find my classes
to be fascinating shows, both in the preparation and in the performance, but
they are only shows. They change student lives no more then their breathing
does, or how their parents hug them, or what movies they see. Does this make me
feel less valuable as a teacher? Not at all, and, truth is, actually more valuable -- as valuable as stars
overhead or a breath of fresh air or a good hug.
* * * * *
ENGLISH CLASS CONCERTS
It
occurs to me every so often that the dignified atmosphere I insist on in my
classes can, in some ways, be compared to what you might see at a classical
orchestra concert. First of all, there’s a hush in the concert hall as the
musicians silently enter, as though something extraordinary is about to occur,
and I insist that students enter my classroom in a similarly dignified kind of stillness.
Both the orchestra and my students are expected to present distinguished
performances, and therefore they should both set a suitably decorous mood
beforehand. I wouldn’t expect musicians to enter the concert hall conversing
and jostling, and neither do I expect it from my students. I also recall, now, that
an orchestra doesn’t begin its concert before taking a moment to make sure
their instruments are in proper tune, and perhaps we need to do something
similar in English class. Perhaps we should use the first two or three minutes
to “prepare” ourselves to take part in distinguished, scholarly discussions and
activities. A few moments of complete silence at their places might be fitting
– a little time to lay a foundation for studious work by settling thoughts and allowing
the bewilderment of their young lives to clear away. If all of this sounds like I want my classes to be grimly
solemn – not at all. I always hope for some cheerful laughter during class –
the joviality of junior scholars enjoying their academic labors – but one of
the best kinds of cheerfulness, to me, arises from doing dignified work in a
stylish way. Like musicians in an orchestra, we can have great fun while we’re
“performing”, and we can do it best by behaving in an honorably decorous
manner.
* * * * *
AN ENCHANTING LIFE
I
often forget how I ended up getting lucky enough to teach English to teenagers
for 45 years – and I shouldn’t, because it’s an astonishing story. Truth is, a
zillion pieces had to fall into just the right places to enable me to find
myself in a small school in St. Louis in 1965, and a zillion more pieces have
fallen into place in the years since then. Now I do my labor of love in another
small school in southeastern Connecticut, and just how I got here is still a
marvelous mystery to me. Stars shifted, possibilities rose up from nowhere,
winds of chance and good fortune followed me here and there, and lo, I find
myself still surrounded by captivating kids for nine months of the year. Are the kids always well behaved? Of
course not, and neither, you might say, are stars or winds or snowstorms or
sunshine, but that doesn’t make them any less miraculous. I live an enchanting
life as a teacher, and I don’t want to forget it, nor how the universe somehow
was good enough to allow me this life of learning and teaching. Some might say
I earned it by hard work in school, dedication to my job, etc., but to me it’s
way more complicated than that. The fact that I’ve had four decades of
rewarding work and millions of other people haven’t remains an impenetrable
mystery to me, as profound as the mystery of where exactly the breeze that just
blew by me came from.
* * * * *
TEACHING WITHOUT “I”,
“ME”, “MY”, OR “MINE”
Pronouns
can be helpful words (there’s a bunch in this paragraph) but I often wish I
could use the first person singular a little less when I’m thinking about
teaching. Of course, they’re a convenience in talking and writing, but when I’m
thinking about the nature of the work I do with my young students, the use of
those pronouns suggests that I’m thinking about teaching in a way that I just
don’t like. It suggests an overly personal approach to the work, as though the
person called “I” is terribly important – more important, it sometimes seems,
than the teaching and learning that happens in the room. With this first-person-singular
attitude, it’s “my” classroom and “my” students. The lesson plans are “my”
plans, as though I somehow own the ideas in the plans, and when things go well,
it’s often what “I” accomplished as a teacher instead of what the kids
accomplished as students. I realize I may be playing semantics here, but still,
I find my constant use of these first person pronouns a plague in my thinking
about teaching. Why does it have to be “my” classroom instead of just “the”
classroom – a place where the learning is not owned and engineered by any one
person but is shared by all? And why, for heaven’s sake, are they “my”
students, implying that I have some strange type of ownership of them. They are
simply students, not owned by anyone except their own freewheeling strength of
mind. And “my” lesson plans? Don’t I borrow all of my ideas – yes, all of them – from outside sources,
including colleagues, articles, books, and on-line discussions? I may remake
them a bit, but they are still rightfully “owned” by the countless hidden
sources from which they sprang. Since when are they “mine” and not simply
shared ideas found at the infinite fountain of teaching know-how? Of course, I do play a significant part in the learning that occurs among my
students, but only in the way a passing breeze plays a part in the general wind
that’s blowing across my yard as I type. Imagine a breeze announcing, “This
wind is my wind and all the breezes
in it are mine.” It might actually
make an interesting children’s story, and the moral would be that
self-importance is a foolish path to follow. All breezes are equally important
as they work with the larger winds of the world, and the gray and slightly stooped
teacher and his students in Room 2 are equally important as they stir up some
English education together.
* * * * *
A CARDINAL AND KIDS
As
I was sitting on the patio this morning close to a bird feeder, a cardinal came
floating across the yard toward the feeder and then veered away, as if it saw
me and was wary – and it reminded me of what seems to happen in English class
now and then. My teenage students are wary folks -- especially, perhaps, because
their teacher is a silvery and seasoned 68, a guy with more furrows in his face
than hair on his head. They often stare at me as though they’re seeing
something from a distant historical age. When they approach my desk, they’re
usually hesitant and silent, coming slowly forward with the deference (and
wariness) they might show to a frail grandfather. It happens that as I’ve been
writing this, the cardinal has approached the feeder a few more times, but each
time has swerved off to the distant trees, as if he can’t quite find the
courage to get so close to the old fellow below the feeder. I hope he finally
is fearless enough to come for his food, and I hope my young students, too, can
learn to live comfortably in the classroom with their elderly teacher. For me,
it’s a question of being patient – just sitting at my desk (or on the patio)
and good-naturedly waiting for birds and kids to trust a little more.